Moretriel
by Auriene
Summary: Surely, it was impossible to die of impatience while awaiting the death, but he would not mind his case to be an exception...
1. Chapter 1: Moretriel

**Author's note: **_The story references content from the brilliant 'Xan NPC mod' by Kulyok and 'BG1 NPC Project' in general, but is not entirely based on them. Words from D&D elven language are taken from (or inspired by) 'A Treatise on Espruar' by Diane Morrison. I took a few liberties with D&D canon and game mechanics for the sake of keeping some things slightly more realistic, but... well, you know how it works, D&D and realism - choose one._

_English is not my first language, so I apologize for any mistakes I failed to notice and correct. I will probably leave this as a one-shot, but I may add something more later.  
_

* * *

**Moretriel**

**.**

The darkness dispersed and then slowly drew back from the shores of his mind. There was a strange irregularity to its comings and goings now – the shadowy waves were rising and falling in accordance to some unknown rhythm, or maybe there was no rhythm at all... He was not sure anymore. The island of his consciousness was a meagre strand of land now, tormented by turbulent ocean tides that were alternately submerging and uncovering it.

Something was telling him that his time would be up soon. Every dark tide seemed to linger upon his mind longer and longer, and every cold ebb was taking away more of his thoughts, emotions, feelings and memories.

He was not struggling against it. He was not even trying.

Truth to be told, he desired nothing more than to stay under those waves long enough to ultimately lose any ability to think, to feel and to remember. There was a time when he had been recoiling at the very thought of dying in these dismal vaults, but now... now it was not relevant anymore – _nothing_ was relevant anymore. His body was tired beyond words and his mind was already fading into the void. He was (_'...doomed...'_) ready to meet his end, more than ever before.

The darkness was holding back, though. At times, it was capriciously toying with him, submerging him in its cold waves, dragging him into the dark depths of oblivion and then pushing him back to the surface, making him involuntarily cling to scraps of his consciousness. Apparently, it was not too eager to end his misery.

_'I am waiting.' _The thought appeared somewhere on the surface of his mind, for a few moments floated around him like a piece of debris and then finally drifted close enough for him to catch it. _'I am waiting on the desert of continuity... caught within my sandglass... counting my grains... while you tarry on the threshold of eternity... holding my last hour... in your white hands...'_

Was that even his thought? Or merely a fragment of some old poetry drawn from his memory? Or maybe a... prayer of some sort? He was almost... He was almost recognizing...

Ah, yes, he could remember now. Apparently, the thought _was_ his – at some point in his life, he had (_'...foolishly...'_) turned it into a poor excuse for a poetry and then into a personal prayer that probably would not meet with approval of any priest known to him. Almost four decades ago, he had developed a rather ridiculous habit of comparing death to a noble lady – a habit he had soon found himself strangely unwilling to break.

He watched the memory surfacing a bit more, letting it entertain his mind a bit longer...

.

When... When had it begun? Surely sometime around the day he had received a grey cloak and had been sent to Greyhome, not even a proper settlement at the time. Greypeaks had not been shrouded in their famous magical mists then, they had been barely settled – but practically every expedition had been bringing news about discovering yet another ancient tomb or yet another mysterious vault hidden among the rocky hills. He had been assigned to join one of such expeditions, the prospect entirely new and frightening to someone like him – a young mage-turned-moonblade-wielder who had just completed his martial training and who had been missing the libraries of the academy through every year of it.

One of the more experienced Greycloaks – he could not remember his name now – had mocked him during their journey, telling him that with such a gloomy expression, he should consider becoming a Tomb Guardian.

But after their first battle with a group of undead monsters, when they had found a temporary shelter in a ruined mausoleum, the same irritating Greycloak had been the first one to approach him and to check on him. He had not been used to receiving wounds then. He had gotten only a few scratches during that encounter, but nevertheless, he must had looked quite miserable. He was no battle mage, after all – for decades, he had been trained in using subtle enchantments and charms to acquire informations _without_ resorting to bloodshed.

He recalled that while his wounds were being treated, he had been staring at one of the once white sculptures standing near the ruined entrance. It was a surprisingly well preserved sculpture of an elven maid clad in elegantly draped dress, with one hand placed over her heart and the other holding a small, fractured sandglass. She had reminded him of one of those noble elven ladies who were often walking in the gardens of Evereska, treading so softly as though they were treading the paths paved with dreams and songs, with the moonlight and evening shadows woven into their hair.

The Greycloak must had noticed his gaze because he had explained to him that in ancient times, such sculptures were carved in memory of those who had died a violent death in distant lands. The maiden, Moretriel, a servant of Labelas Enoreth or simply a personification of death, had been believed to visit them in their last moments, offering them comfort and sometimes even a kiss with which she had been stealing their last breath.

He had snorted then. He had immediately dismissed the story as a sugar-coated nonsense, something that had been made up to make the tragedy of a violent death – the most feared kind of death that could prevent an elf from finding their way to Arvanaith – somewhat less frightening.

But the memory of that story had been returning to him later, especially when he had been contemplating his wretched existence and his future non-existence as yet another elven essence imprisoned in his moonblade.

It was embarrassing, really, since it was not a custom for him to indulge himself with such a (_'...pointless...'_) wishful thinking, but... Since both his life and afterlife were doomed to be miserable, perhaps at least his death – undoubtedly, a violent one – would not be such a terrible experience, after all. The prospect of meeting Moretriel was strangely alluring, even though there were so many unthinkably gruesome ways of dying...

.

...not unlike the one he was going through right now.

The memory floated away and he would sigh, had he any strength left. _'Moretriel.'_ How many times before he had seen her shadow moving across his path? But even now, she was delaying her arrival in a (_'...cruel...'_) courtly manner, as was a custom among noble ladies, apparently knowing that he was bound to wait, and wait, and _wait_.

Surely, it was impossible to die of impatience while awaiting the death, but he would not mind his case to be an exception.

That last thought was still barely formed in his mind when his consciousness registered an echo of a feminine whisper reverberating somewhere in the distance, unbelievably faint and almost unrecognizable.

Was he delusional, perhaps? He made an effort to focus his hearing on his surroundings, but at this point, everything sounded muffled to him. There was something, though... A rustle of swift steps, then fingers grazing over a rocky wall... Then more whispers floating through the cold air of the underground cavern – the air that seemed to be perpetually heavy with the scent of mud, damp stones, smoking torches and kobolds.

Had she... Had she decided to finally end his waiting?

The steps seemed to approach him now. Seldarine...! So his time was almost over. Only a few heartbeats. Only a few shallow breaths. Only a moment and there would be no more pain, no more cold, no more hunger and thirst that were wrenching his insides. _'No more thinking, at last.'_

She stopped only a few paces away from him. _'I am waiting,'_ he was whispering in his mind that last conscious, coherent thought._ 'I am waiting...'_

Suddenly, two cool fingers pressed the side of his neck, precisely over the point where healers were customarily checking the pulse. Someone carefully lifted his head and turned it slightly to the side (_'...why...'_), and then a smooth hand pushed the hair back from his face – the hair full of cave mud, dirt and crusts of blood. Someone was being called with a lowered voice, someone else was given orders with a firm, decisive whisper, and then more rustles, more steps...

Disoriented, he lifted his eyelids in the exact moment when something (_'...what...'_) touched his dried, cracked lips in a manner that resembled a soothing kiss – but it was only a scrap of wet linen, it seemed. One drop found its way into his mouth and he immediately recognized the taste of a healing potion on his tongue, the well-known bitterness overlayed with minty sweetness.

Before he slipped into unconsciousness again, he managed to catch a glimpse of silvery green eyes, with a glimmer of torch flame dancing in them like a gentle spark of smile... or were those tears, perhaps...? For some reason, he could not tell for sure.

He was about to think that this was the strangest Moretriel he could had imagined, but the darkness engulfed his mind once again.

.

''He... He even breathin', ya think?''

The young woman only nodded in response, repeatedly soaking a scrap of linen in healing potion and then bringing the wet fabric to the lips of unconscious elf, as she had been previously instructed by the druid. She felt strangely anxious, playing the part of a healer, especially since she could not shake off the feeling that she was touching a corpse. Of course, he was breathing and he was apparently alive... but his unmoving body was almost unnaturally cold.

Imoen frowned and crouched nearby with a set of lock picks clattering in her hand. A moment later, the prisoner's shackles fell open with a heavy clank.

"There," she announced softly. "Poor sod... Take a look at his fingers, all bloody an' broken...! What he'd been throu'? What'd aunt said?'

"He should recover with time." Vaire poured a few drops of the potion on the clean linen and began to carefully dab cuts and scratches crisscrossing the elf's face. "He must have been imprisoned here for a few tendays and it seems that he has been... incapacitated... in a rather gruesome manner," she shuddered slightly.

"Ya mean... how exactly?"

"They choked him with a rope to the point of damaging his vocal cords, to prevent him from casting spells, and then... they crushed or broke most of his fingers, probably just in case," she paused. "Rather typical methods, according to Jaheira."

Imoen's eyes widened.

"W- Wait... How's aunt actually know 'bout such things?"

Vaire only shrugged, her mind occupied with other thoughts.

Since the beginning of their journey, she had seen more bloody, battered bodies and mortal wounds than during her entire life so far: the body of her foster father, almost split in half by the sword of their enemy, then numerous corpses of unfortunate merchants and mercenaries scattered around the caravans near the Coast Way, then the heart-wrenching sight of that young family with child, murdered on the southern road...

The list was getting longer and longer with each tenday – or with each day, recently – and only a while ago, she was convinced that it was more than enough to desensitize her somehow.

Then, after entering the Mulahey's den, she was forced to admit that she had not seen everything yet. The thought made her almost sick with unease.

For a moment, she had been sure that she had stumbled across the corpse of some unlucky captive, shackled and still attached to the nearby rocks with chains. The first thing she had noticed were his fingers – covered with blood, crooked and twisted as though in a voiceless scream of pain and despair. Then she had spotted a few other details: the wicked, bloody trace of rope visible across his neck, the cracked lips that apparently had not touched water for days, the pale face marked with claws of kobolds...

She had hesitantly touched his neck, searching for the pulse, and was slightly surprised to find it. So he was _alive_. Mulahey had probably interrogated him and then left him here to perish, from time to time letting his kobolds to torment the dying prisoner.

And suddenly, the enormity of his suffering had hit her so hard that she had almost staggered. For any creature, the death of cold, wounds, weariness and lack of nourishment would be a slow and a painful one, but for the one of the elven kind...

Her throat had tightened to the point when it was almost hard for her to breathe. She had been underground for almost a day now, and her surroundings were already making her ill. Fortunately, she had been discreetly taking a sip of calming draught now and then, whenever she was at the verge of turning around and running back to the surface in panic.

And he had been kept here for _tendays..._!

Her initial shock and revulsion almost instantly morphed into resentful anger – an empty one though, since Mulahey was already dead. But oh, how she regretted now that she had slain him so quickly! She had no particular thirst for blood, but she would be almost happy to have a chance to kill him again, this time more slowly and perhaps a bit more painfully...

"Can't ya just force this potion down his throat or somethin'?," Imoen's voice suddenly cut through her thoughts. "I bet that'd help him a lot more than this... this moilin' ye'r doin' right now."

"Can't." Vaire focused her attention on a particularly deep gash on the elf's temple. "He needs to be conscious for that."

"Oh, right," the pink-haired girl scrunched her face up for a moment. "Wouldn't wanna accidentally choke him an' all...," she paused and then, as if on second thought, sprang to her feet. "Well, I'd better go back to the aunt, then. I'm no good when it comes to healin', anyway... With those, I can only heal stubborn locks," she raised her set of lock picks and shook it playfully.

Vaire nodded.

"The sooner we finish searching this place, the sooner we move," she murmured.

Her younger companion glanced at the unconscious elf one more time and then made her way towards the cave entrance. Vaire watched her leaving with a slightly bemused expression.

Sometimes she envied her sister. Of course, she had always known that the girl was tough in her own way... and yet it was surprising to find out that Imoen – that mischievous, cheerful, carefree child – was so well suited for a life where death and danger were their constant companions. Nothing could touch her. Nothing could sway her. Perhaps it was because she never pondered over anything too much, but still...

What was also unfathomable for Vaire – Imoen seemed pretty much unaffected by the fact that they were leaving corpses behind them, and that some of those corpses bore marks of her own blades. She could send her dagger straightly into the thug's neck, swiftly search his pockets, drag his body to the side of the road – although not without a grimace – and then, after wiping her blades clean, she could smile again without a trace of shadow in her eyes. __'Time to move, eh?'__

Vaire wished she had some of her resilience.

Early in their travel, she had been positively mulling over her every kill. Was that death really necessary? Was there another way, perhaps? According to her father and her teachers, killing the opponent was not something that should be taken lightly, but how could she conform to that philosophy while trying to survive on the road, facing assassins, bandits and monsters almost on a daily basis? During the long hours of night watch, she often talked about those things with Khalid – and their talks were always helping her regain some of her inner balance – but sometimes she still felt conflicted.

She shook her head, turning her gaze back to the captive... and freezing.

He must had been conscious for a little while now because his widely open, pale blue eyes were staring at her with intensity that was making her uneasy. Those could be the eyes of a shipwrecked man awakening on some unknown shore, confused and almost wild.

For a few heartbeats, she was just returning his gaze, too startled to react more rationally. She supposed that she should say something, but how to start? 'How are you' seemed a bit out of place, considering his state...

Before she could decide though, the mage abruptly jerked his head forward. When she instinctively backed off a bit, frowning in surprise, he began to struggle as though in a desperate effort to scramble to his feet.

"Easy now," she placed her hand on his shoulder. He was clearly trying to say something, but all he could produce was a broken, barely audible rasping. "Easy," she repeated more firmly. "You are safe. Mulahey is dead, as well as many of his kobolds. We are going to help you, but... maybe try not to move too much for now."

He stopped struggling, but he was still attempting to speak, choking at his every breath. His eyes, now narrowed and dimmed with pain, were filled with unspoken, yet undoubtedly firm plea.

"Wait," she gently supported his head with her arm. "I could give you a healing potion, the problem is, your throat may be too damaged to -," she sighed when the rasping intensified. "- to safely swallow anything... but you want to try, apparently?"

An impatient nod was the only response she got. She gave him a dubious look, but after a moment of consideration she placed the bottle near his lips and carefully tipped it. A few small sips later, he drew back and began to cough violently – fortunately, the coughing ceased after a while and he raised his head, looking at her with pained expression.

"_Tahl'nodel_," he rasped weakly. "My moonblade... My most valued possession... Mulahey hid it somewhere... close, but not close enough..."

Vaire almost dropped the potion.

"A... moonblade?," she repeated, not quite believing her ears. "You are a moonblade wielder?"

A nod, this time barely noticeable.

"I... I thank you for my freedom... and for your aid, but...," he eased his head back onto the rock. "Without my blade... I am a dead man anyway..."

"I understand," she murmured more to herself than to anyone else and then turned her head towards the entrance, giving a sharp whistle. Almost immediately, an echo of footsteps could be heard and Imoen emerged from surrounding shadows.

"Whatchu want?," she whispered, casting a curious glance at the elf. "Hey, someone's finally 'wake! How're ya feel-"

"Imoen, this is important," Vaire interrupted her quickly. "Somewhere among Mulahey's things there should be a longsword with a moonstone in its pommel. It is most likely hidden and wrapped in something. It must be found and returned to -"

She suddenly remembered that she had not asked the elf about his name.

" - him."

"Like, he wants his blade back?" Imoen bit her lip. "Well, we found a cloak an' a bag of holdin' locked up togetha in a trunk. We figured out that's probably his stuff, elvish an' all... but there's no weapon."

"There must be somewhere. This sword is magically connected to him and as long as they are separated, he... he is not going to get better," Vaire glanced at the elf who seemed to have trouble staying conscious.

"So tis' some _cursed_ _blade_?," the pink-haired girl cringed. "Gee, thanks for lettin' me know before I touched it!"

"This sword is _not_ cursed," Vaire wanted to shake her head, but then paused. "Just... ah, better not to touch it directly, I suppose. Tell Jaheira that we need to find a moonblade. She should know how to handle it."

Imoen did not look convinced, but she nodded and hurried to the other cave.

Vaire helped the mage to drink the rest of the healing potion and then a bit of water. His pale face marked with partially healed cuts and scratches was still contorted in pain, but with each small sip he seemed to look... well, not exactly better, but less like a corpse, perhaps.

"There are four of us here," she began, breaking the silence. "Two of my companions have been asked by the mayor of Nashkel to investigate the ore shortage. There were also rumours about creatures attacking the miners. Yesterday, we entered the mines and... well, managed to get as far as here."

"What... day is it?," his voice sounded less rasping now.

"Tarsakh, sixteenth."

He closed his eyes and sighed.

"How long have you been here?," she asked carefully.

"Over... twenty days," he hesitated and then, with a visible effort, lifted his left hand at the level of his eyes, examining his fingers – or what was left of them. Something in his gaze prompted her to gently touch his wrist and tug his arm away from his sight.

"I need to clean those wounds," she muttered.

There, and it was not even a lie.

"Jaheira is a druid and an experienced healer," she continued, in the meantime uncorking another potion. "Unfortunately, she could not perform a proper healing on you, since she was completely drained after our last battle. Just give her some time, though, and she is going to patch you up better than the town's cleric," she smiled slightly.

The wizard spared her only a sidelong glance and then turned his head to the side, his expression dejected, almost as though her smile insulted him somehow. She winced mentally, but she could not really blame him for being depressed, considering his state. Perhaps he would be better with his blade back.

"I have also been sent here... to find the source of local problems," he said after a while.

Vaire frowned slightly.

"The mayor told us about a few other adventurers who volunteered to check the mines," she said slowly. "I do not remember him mentioning you, but -"

"I am not an... _adventurer_," he suddenly cut in. His voice was still silent, but this time he sounded firm and almost annoyed. "I am... I am a Greycloak of Evereska. I am here by the order of my superiors and so far... I have not had a chance to speak to mayor Ghastkill."

She blinked. So he was not only a moonblade wielder, but also one of those mysterious Evereskan Greycloaks?_ 'Strange for his kind to investigate events so far from his homeland,'_ she mused, but after a moment of consideration, she decided against asking him about it. She had a feeling that he would not answer, anyway.

"So you came here completely alone?," she asked instead.

"There was no need to... drag anyone else into this... hopeless cause," he sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. "I suspected that there might be a spy somewhere. I gathered a few informations on my way here and... decided to look around the mines before entering the town. I have been attacked and captured by Mulahey... near the southern borrow pit."

"Southern, you say?," Vaire repeated, cleaning the wounds on his other hand. "Sounds familiar. Two days ago, we have encountered three groups of kobolds there. They were equipped with human-made weapons, apparently awaiting us."

"Mulahey clearly knew...," he trailed off, thinking about something. "I am certain that he was communicating with someone from the town... or from the area in general... but since I... since I barely speak now... can we postpone this... conversation?"

She nodded.

"We may exchange informations later, when we reach the surface."

"Provided... we survive," he muttered. "This place is not the best one... to tarry at. There are hundreds of kobolds here... and I doubt that you managed to... slain them all."

"Jaheira and Imoen should be almost done with their searching by now. Khalid, our warrior, is watching over the main entrance and he will warn us in case of trouble."

They went silent again. Vaire focused on wrapping up his wrists and hands as delicately as she could and he was watching her every move, alternately clenching his teeth and hissing in pain. Unfortunately, she could not help him with that. The healing potion he had been given was nowhere as effective as pain relievers – she could only hope that Jaheira had some left.

"You know the names of our entire company now, save mine," she said, trying to distract him somehow. "I am Vaire."

Pale blue eyes met hers for a moment.

"I am Xan," he replied, blinking wearily.

The bandaging was almost finished when she heard a sound of footsteps approaching. She turned around just in time to see Imoen and Jaheira entering the cave, the druid carrying something that hopefully was a longsword wrapped in a cloth.

"Found it!," Imoen smiled broadly. "'Twas hangin' in the darkest corner. That priest probably feared to even look at it."

"We have no time for this, child," Jaheira scoffed at her, approaching the wizard and kneeling beside him. "Good to see you conscious," she said to the elf, observing him keenly. "Given your state, you probably feel even worse than you look, but we need to get you on your feet now. I am Jaheira."

"I know," he nodded absentmindedly. His eyes were constantly returning to the sword and his body shifted forward. "I am really grateful for your assistance, but my blade -"

"In a moment," the druid interrupted him. "I know that you need to have it back, and you will, but first..."

She took from her holster a small red vial, then swiftly uncorked it and raised it to his lips. Xan eyed the potion with blank expression.

"This is not a healing potion," he commented somewhat warily.

"Not exactly. This is the potion of aid." the druid explained patiently. "The effect will not be entirely pleasant, but it should strengthen you, at least for some time. You need to be able to walk. We may be forced to fight our way out of this place. We cannot afford to carry you."

"What's going on?," Vaire stood up, giving her uneasy look.

"Khalid returned a while ago. Kobolds are already gathering in the nearby tunnels," Jaheira tilted the vial so that the elf would be able to drink the contents. "Fortunately, they are rather loud and he overheard a few things. They apparently think that we plan to escape through one of the tunnels leading straightly to the surface."

"The eastern passage?," Xan slowly raised his head. "The one across the water... at the back of the main cave?"

"The same. What do you know about it?"

"Mulahey ordered his kobolds to dig that tunnel around a month ago... or so I have heard," he sighed. "They were already finished when I was brought here. The priest mentioned it once or twice while speaking with them. I believe it was meant to be his way out... in case of an emergency."

"Ironic," Vaire muttered.

"We must hurry," Jaheira frowned. "Khalid claims that from the distance, the tunnel appears to be clear, but kobolds already know that we want to use it."

Vaire glanced at the wizard. He still looked miserable, but the potion, probably in combination with the presence of his blade, was clearly beginning to work. His eyes became more focused and his face gained some colours – or at least as much of them as it was possible for a malnourished moon elf who had been kept underground for almost a month.

When he reached for the sword, Jaheira stopped him though.

"You may not feel pain now, but you won't be able to hold anything in your hands," she frowned, taking the blade and unwrapping it with ease. "I will help you with this. Stand up."

From under the cloth emerged a beautiful, dark grey scabbard inlaid with mithral, still attached to a similarly ornamented belt of the same colour. While the druid was helping the elf with girdling, Vaire could not help but stare at the moonstone in the sword's pommel, the gem glowing softly in the light of torches.

_'A moonblade.' _One of the most sacred elven weapons, and it was right there, in front of her eyes... Something in her – something within her very soul, perhaps – stirred with strange, almost warm recognition, the feeling not unpleasant, but definitely unfamiliar. She averted her gaze and blinked a few times.

Was that possible that her blood was reacting somehow to the presence of the sword? Well, she _was _an elf, after all, at least by birth... and the moonblade was practically radiating an aura of ancient elven magic, even though unsheathed.

"Aunt's just told me 'bout blades such's this one," Imoen whispered into her ear. "I get that it's fancy and old and whatnot, but if you'd ask me, this stuff's simply cursed. I mean, seriously, who'd want a sword that can kill ya?"

Vaire frowned and elbowed her.

"A good question," Xan muttered almost inaudibly. "Even though clearly rhetorical."

Imoen's eyes widened when the realization dawned at her.

"Oh shoot...!," she slapped her hand across her mouth and laughed. "Sorry! I sometimes forget that elvish hearin' is so... ya know... _elvish_," she grinned sheepishly, rubbing the back of her neck and looking at the wizard. "Sorry, uh... mister elf. This sword of yours looks really nice, by the way. Not that I saw it, but the scabbard... with those shiny-swirly things an' all..."

Vaire had the urge to cover her eyes, simultaneously biting insides of her cheeks. She could only hope that neither the blade, nor its wielder felt insulted enough to bring some elven curse on their heads.

But Xan only stared at the pink-haired girl with a slightly perplexed expression, as though she was a chicken that had just spoken.

"Pay her no attention," Jaheira wearily shook her head, fastening the buckle. "The child has no more manners than she has common sense."

Imoen gasped, faking indignation.

Suddenly, the elf's eyes darted to the entrance. His right ear twitched barely perceptibly and his sullen expression instantly changed into a wary one.

"Someone is coming," he whispered.

"Khalid," the druid nodded. "I can hear him too."

Soon the warrior appeared in the cave, his armor stained with fresh blood.

"K-kobolds are nearly t-there," he announced, trying not to sound too loud. "I have k-killed scouts, but they already know where we are. I saw a f-few others in the main t-tunnel."

_'...not good.'_

"Have you taken everything that can be useful to us?," Vaire asked, casting a questioning glance at the pink-haired girl who saluted mockingly.

"Everythin' that was possible to take, sis! Even the curtains."

Jaheira rolled her eyes at the rogue's antics.

"You and the wizard go first," she announced, unclasping the sling from her belt. "The rest of us will focus on delaying the kobolds."

"T-the way to the eastern p-passage should be clear," Khalid was already taking an arrow out of his quiver. "But you need to m-move quickly. T-take a torch with you."

"Sure thing, uncle."

"V-vaire, any spells?"

"Two snowballs, at most," she quickly gathered her things and straightened, looking at the elf.

"Xan, are you ready?"

"...In a way," he replied hesitantly. He seemed to have no trouble with standing, although when he took his first step, he immediately stumbled and staggered towards the nearby wall. "This is hopeless," he murmured weakly, but he did not protest when Imoen swiftly slid her arm under his and pulled him towards the entrance.

.

This was utterly hopeless.

Whatever the druid gave him seemed to resemble those strange potions that were sometimes used by elven warriors, especially during long and exhausting battles. Warmth was spreading through his entire body, almost scorching his insides, as though he had too many cups of _elquesstria_, although the skin around his wounds was numb and icy cold, and he could barely feel his hands. By some miracle, his legs were able to carry him through the dark cave, but he felt dizzy and disoriented – and he would surely lose his sense of direction if not for the help of that pink-haired child.

They were near some kind of an underground lake when the first kobolds attacked, but fortunately, the passage was not far away. The druid and the warrior were trying to keep the creatures from coming too close, he could hear their bullets and arrows whizz through the air, followed by kobolds' annoyed yipping. Suddenly, the skin at the back of his neck prickled with recognition of magical aura – that other young woman, Vaire, was apparently weaving her snowball. In the next heartbeat he heard a silent hiss and a distant sound of crunching ice, and when he turned his head towards her, she was already shaking off ice dust from her fingers.

A relatively fast and silent spellcaster, then – clearly not the most skilled though, since the spell seemed to lack force, and also terribly sloppy, judging by those traces of ice on her hands. But... was there something familiar about her aura...?

He glanced at her once again, this time focusing on her features. She had some moonelven blood in her, that much was clear for him already, but... He looked at her ears. They were delicate and elongated, but their tips were concealed by her hair, so he could not distinguish their exact shape.

_'No, not possible,'_ he shook the thought off. Not once had she used elven speech in his presence – and she should had, at least while acknowledging him as a moonblade wielder, as was a custom among his people.

She was merely a _zenar'bhen_, nothing more.

He shifted his thoughts towards more pressing matters. The three of them finally made their way to the tunnel entrance, but as he had expected, the area was not completely unguarded. The ground below was shining and shimmering faintly – not with a water, though.

"Wait," he stopped abruptly, almost making the pink-haired girl stumble. "Watch your step."

She cursed silently under her breath and raised the torch, trying to take a better look at whatever was covering the cave floor in front of them. The oily shining rippled and trembled, as though in response to light – and then, in the blink of an eye, it thickened into a transparent blob. The creature began to slowly creep forward with a sickening, slushing sound.

Imoen gave a startled yelp and took a few steps back, dragging the elf with her.

"A... slime?," Vaire winced.

"Gray ooze, to be precise," he muttered.

The young woman nervously glanced behind, where the druid and the warrior were still dealing with attacking kobolds – from what he could hear, the number of creatures was constantly growing. They were too preoccupied to help.

She apparently came to the same conclusion because she looked back at him, her expression unsure.

"Is that thing vulnerable to magic?"

He frowned. Seldarine, was she completely ignorant? She was using magic in battle and yet she had no knowledge of such things?

"No, save for a few sonic and shocking evocations," he replied.

She gave a frustrated sigh and reached under her cloak to unsheathe her weapon. The wizard actually blinked in astonishment. _'A... longsword?'_ An unorthodox choice for a spellcaster, and considering their current situation, very...

"Unwise," he shook his head. "Unless you want to damage your blade for nothing."

"This is magically treated silver," she sounded so smug that he almost rolled his eyes.

"This ooze corrodes mithral," he countered flatly.

It was her turn to pause in disbelief.

"Seriously?"

"D'ya have any, ya know... actually _useful _ideas?," Imoen backed off some more, frantically waving her torch at the persistently creeping blob – and suddenly, she picked up a rock and threw it towards the creature, probably more out of sheer frustration than out of a rational thought. It immediately sank into the ooze with a silent 'plop,' seemingly not harming it much, but surprisingly, forcing it to retreat a bit.

"Hey, it works!," she grinned and grabbed another piece of rock, her companion following her example. A few more hits later, the blob shivered convulsively and with an offended slurp, seeped into a crevice between rocks.

"Immy, climb first," Vaire approached the tunnel entrance. "You will need to pull him up, but be careful... No, no, not by wrists! Now, watch his hands..."

After a moment, the mage crawled into the narrow passage... and almost backed off in an instant. The small, humid tunnel felt _too small_, even for a kobold. The walls seemed to close around him in a suffocating manner and the darkness around was unbearably thick, like in the... in the...

_'...in the grave,'_ he finished glumly.

How fitting.

The pink-haired was already ahead of him, fumbling with something around her neck. Soon a faint light dispersed the darkness in front of her, apparently coming from a magical pendant of some sort. The effect was nowhere close to a properly cast spell, but it was still better than nothing.

He could not remember for how long they had been crawling along the tunnel, he remembered only cold, slick rocks and unnumbered narrow crevices he needed to squeeze through, mostly with the assistance of both young women. And there were kobolds behind them, barking and yipping furiously, the sounds bringing up memories of their claws slashing through his face and their small teeth sinking into his arm.

His entire head was pounding with hollow thuds in which he could barely recognize the echo of his own heartbeat. The druid and the warrior were keeping kobolds busy for now, but inside the tunnel, they were an easy target.

_'They are going to catch us,'_ the thoughts began to slowly go in circles in his head. _'They are going to catch us, to snatch us down, one by one... or we are going to die here from the lack of air...'_

At some point, the pink-haired shouted that she can see the light in the distance, her voice overloaded with joy. Was there anything to be joyful about, though? They were chased through the underground tunnel by legions of vengeful creatures and soon, very soon they were going to be slaughtered, skinned and eaten, not necessarily in that order... but on the other hand, perhaps he could be allowed to see the sky for the last time.

Suddenly, the intense heat and the equally intense cold began to slowly seep off from his body, making him able to feel the pain again. _'Too much.'_ This was too much. Trying to gather remains of his strength, he stopped and lowered his head.

The potion wore off.

"Xan, keep moving...!," he heard an echo of a slightly panicked voice.

Had it depended on him, he would probably listen, but it was already too late. His burning cheek met the rocky surface. His eyes fell close and the familiar darkness swept against the shores of his mind once more.

Someone caught him in the middle and rolled him onto his back, someone else tugged at his limp arm, then at the other one. Soon his body was moving forward again, pulled, pushed and supported by limbs that almost certainly were not his own.

"No, no, no," chanted the voice behind him. "Not now, please, not now..."

When one of his bandaged hands got caught between his side and a rock, exploding with the entirely new kind of pain, he had not enough strength to utter a scream – although he had most likely produced a sound of some sort because the pink-haired girl immediately began to apologize. The pain was unbearable, but for some reason, it cleared up his head a bit.

Something was... different.

The rock beneath him appeared to be dry and almost warm now, and the air around was better, lighter and less humid. The darkness that clung to the inner side of his eyelids changed the colour, apparently unaware of the fact that it was not supposed to have any colour at all.

"Hold on," he heard a soft voice, this time almost directly above his ear.

He almost frowned in protest. He did not want to hold on. He wanted to finally let go...

But the voice was persistent, muttering more words of encouragement.

He cracked his eyes open and noticed a rocky ceiling above him, the sun painting deep shadows against the uneven surface (_'...the sun...?'_). Something pressed against his lips and when he glanced down, he noticed a bottle of a healing potion held by an unbelievably dirty hand. He would probably feel offended, if not for the fact that he was not exactly clean himself.

"Go on. Drink this".

The last drops were still sliding down his throat when he heard – or perhaps sensed – a druidic incantation, followed by a heavy thud and a tremblor in the earth beneath them. For a short moment he had a feeling as though his insides were sinking down into the void, and then a deafening rumble of crumbling rocks filled the air, followed by clouds of suffocating dust.

Coughing weakly, he closed his eyes and wanted to cover his mouth with his hand – only, he was not able to move it. Someone was shouting, someone was apparently coughing and laughing at once, if that was even possible. Someone's hand covered the lower part of his face with a scrap of wet linen and then gently pushed the hair back from his forehead, as though it mattered in any way.

When he lifted his eyelids, his surroundings were still blurred, but he was able to breathe almost normally. Somewhere above him hovered a half-familiar face covered with cave mud, smeared with reddish dirt and heavily sprinkled with dust, framed with equally dusty hair. Her mouth and nose were covered with a dirty cloth – only her large, silvery green eyes seemed to be pristine clean, bright with tears... or was that a smile?

He briefly focused on their corners.

_'A smile, then...'_

Something shifted within him.

Perhaps his heart was finally stopping.

She said something, something about the tunnel collapsing and about them being safe, but her words were muffled by the cloth and he was not really listening. The pain and the extreme weariness turned his hazed mind towards the strangest paths.

They say that nothing happens twice, and yet... For the second time around today, he had been sure that he was dying – and for the second time around, it was her voice he had heard in the darkness – and her fingers brushing against his face – and her eyes, those strangely (_'...no, they cannot be...'_) elven eyes watching over him...

Maybe... maybe she _was_ his death, after all. Moretriel disguised as a silver-haired... someone.

She was not a noble elven lady, and he was pretty sure that she did not kiss him, but...

Maybe he would not even mind.

.

* * *

* _Moretriel_ \- 'death maiden'

* _tahl'nodel_ \- moonblade

* _elquesstria_ \- a type of elven liquor

* _zenar'bhen_ \- half-human (half-elf)


	2. Chapter 2: N'Tel'Quess

**Author's note: **_So, um... I decided to... continue? I don't know if I'll be able to update regularly, and where this will actually go, but... let's give it a try. I hope I'll be able to add a new chapter at least once a month or so.  
_

_Nimloth of Thay and Zhenta - thank you for the reviews! I really appreciate them, as well as every fav and follow. It is still a bit new to me, knowing that someone out there is reading the story I write, but it is nice to know that 'Moretriel' was to your liking_ ^_^

**.**

Chapter 2

**N'Tel'Quess**

**.**

She coughed, trying to take another breath through the wet cloth. The dust was lingering in the air around them like a suffocating spell, clinging to their skin and clothes, burning their lungs and biting their eyes. The deafening rumble of crumbling rocks already ceased, replaced in her ears by an annoying, ringing sensation – she shook her head, trying to get rid of it, but with no effect.

The mage was unconscious again. The way to the surface must had drained him. There were a few moments when she had been almost sure that they had lost him, and even now she could not help but worry about his condition. Somehow, the pale sunlight that was seeping through the clouds of dust was making him look more frail, thin and colourless than the shadows of his underground prison.

"Auntie, I wish ya could teach me this!," Imoen coughed and laughed simultaneously. Her face was almost unrecognizable under the layers of grime and dust, and her hair resembled a greyish pink mop – but her smile was as wide as ever. "Awesome trick...!"

Jaheira was slowly getting to her feet a few paces away from them. Her frame was somewhat shaky from fatigue and she staggered while standing up, but when her husband caught her by arm, she only shook her head. She whispered something into his ear, briefly squeezing his shoulder, and then took a step forward, this time more steady.

"We need to move," her voice sounded weary, but the firm, decisive tone was still there, along with the well-known, determined frown. "The spell damaged those rocks nearby. The ground is unstable."

They loaded the unconscious wizard onto the warrior's shoulders and together they moved away from the remains of a small, natural cavern, leaving the collapsed tunnel behind them – hopefully, along with the memory of kobolds.

The sun was beginning to set. For some time, they were treading the scree in silence, not even having the strength to speak to each other, focusing on their surroundings instead. The landscape around them looked unfamiliar – large, eroded mountain masses were stretching towards the south in a jagged arch, their barren slopes easing into the bottom of an equally barren valley. The thin grass that was growing there was yellowed and windswept, mostly giving way to extensive screes and heaps of rocky debris.

Vaire turned her face towards the sunlit sky and smiled in delight, at the moment not overly concerned with their current location. _'The sun! The sky! The air!'_ She raked her hand through her hair, letting the wind sweep through her dusty braids and graze along the sensitive skin of her ears. Sighing in elation, she felt her spirit soaring with happiness so overwhelming that she could barely restrain herself from bursting into a song – or shouting to the high heaven.

She sincerely hoped that she would not be forced to explore any mines, caves or dungeons anytime soon.

"Where are we?," Imoen slowed down and began to dust herself off, but mostly to little avail. "We couldn't get far from the mines, right? 'Though this place looks, um... unlike those mountains 'round the town."

"H-how so?," Khalid raised an eyebrow at her.

"The colours are all wrong, duh...," she huffed, waving her hand towards the landscape before them. "There's barely anythin' green here, an' those striped rocks look like... clumps of a giant honey cake or somethin'," she paused, narrowing her eyes at him. "Wait, ya _can_ see that, right?"

The warrior smiled barely noticeably and nodded.

"S-such striped rocks are t-typical for southern foothills," he explained. "That ragged p-part of the m-mountain range on your right... Those are the m-mountains we've seen from the mining site. This p-place must be north-east of the mines."

"So we're... how far from Nashkel?"

"This has yet to be d-decided," he replied thoughtfully. "We were underground for – for almost t-two days, and now we may need to b-bypass the mountains. This may t-take three or four days, d-depending on the route."

"Let's figure that out later," Vaire tried to wipe her face with a dusty cloth, but ended up smearing the grime all over her forehead and cheeks. "The twilight is drawing near. Let's find some place to rest."

"Soon," Jaheira turned her head towards her, not slowing down. "For now, we need to get as far from that tunnel as possible. More kobolds may roam the area. No need to risk yet another encounter today."

Vaire could not disagree with her, glancing at her companions. The weariness was taking its toll on everyone. The young rogue was barely dragging her feet across the rocky ground. The druid looked plainly exhausted, her sun-tanned face paler than ever, her usually bright and alert eyes dimmed. That tremor spell she had used to collapse the tunnel clearly stole whatever energy she had left after their battle with Mulahey and his minions.

Khalid, on the other hand, seemed no worse than he had been earlier – he carried an unconscious elf on his shoulders as though he weighed nothing, although she had already noticed that the warrior was simply really, _really_ good at hiding his tiredness. And Xan...

_'Ah, not so unconscious anymore, apparently.' _Vaire caught a glimpse of blue eyes behind the crumpled strands of his dark hair. He seemed to be staring into space, but after a moment she realized that his eyes were actually focused on something.

She followed his gaze and found herself looking at the sky over the western horizon, where the setting sun was casting golden and orange hues upon the mountain slopes, painting the landscape with bluish shadows and fiery highlights.

.

Sometime before the nightfall, they found a promising spot under an overhanging rock, reasonably elevated and sheltered from the wind. The ground there was hard and uneven, but there was more than enough space for them to set a small camp. To everyone's delight, the nearby rock fissures turned out to contain some fresh water that apparently had accumulated there after the last rain. That enabled them to clean themselves from grime and dust – or at least from the worst of it, considering the circumstances.

They dared not to make a fire.

Imoen was first to go to sleep – she practically fell onto her bedroll and promptly buried herself in it, covering her head with her pink woollen cowl and muttering something about 'blasted rocks pokin' at her back'.

Jaheira scowled at her in silence, sitting cross-legged on the ground and carefully cleaning her armor and weapons. Imoen's black leathers were piled up in the same place where the rogue had shed them, still dusted and covered with grime.

"I can take the first watch alone," Vaire raised her head, refastening her belt. She had gotten out of her leather cuirass, bracers and boots to clean them, but now she was eager to put them back on. Since that first attack in the woods near the Lion's Way, she was spending most of her nights with her armor on, with her spellbook on her lap and with her sword laying nearby. "Let her sleep. She can take the morning watch with you."

Jaheira let out an annoyed sigh.

"As you wish," she nodded, moving a cloth along the edges of her ankheg shell buckler. "But she is careless. She needs to learn to take care of her equipment before it gets mold on it."

Soon, from behind the nearby rocks, slowly emerged Khalid, supporting the mage who was heavily leaning on his arm. Even cleaned and clothed in fresh garments, Xan seemed to look only a tad better than previously – his face was almost translucent, his sunken eyes were framed with shadows and his gaze was so utterly despondent that one could think that the elf was counting hours to his own execution.

Vaire glanced at him, a shadow of worry crossing her face. She had heard tales about seasoned warriors and battle wizards whose minds and spirits had been permanently damaged by imprisonment and tortures. She had never met one – and she sincerely hoped that this was not the case with the elven mage – but he looked... like one of those elven shadows that accordingly to some legends, wandered among the ruins of ancient elven kingdoms.

As soon as the wizard had been seated on a spare sheepskin spread on the ground, Jaheira began to examine his wrists, palms and fingers. A grimace of pain was flashing through his face now and then, but he did not utter a sound during the entire procedure.

"You probably already know what I'm going to say now," she muttered, letting go of his hands and reaching for her bag to retrieve a roll of bandages and a jar of salve. "You have a few broken bones that already began to heal in the wrong position, not counting fractures and sprains. Your fingers need to be realigned before any further treatment."

He closed his eyes for a moment.

"Are they... Are they ever going to be functional?," he uttered in a choked whisper.

"Yes, but healing them to perfection may take some time," she said matter-of-factly. "Half-healed, old injuries are usually slow to respond to the healing spells. You should have your fingers somewhat functional by tomorrow, but I warn you, they won't be very flexible at first. In around two tendays, though, they should be as good as they were before."

"Two tendays?," his tone suggested that for him, it was an equivalent of two centuries. He looked down at his hands, his face twisting briefly in a bitter grimace.

Jaheira gave a slightly impatient sigh.

"Do you want me to proceed, or would you rather consult a town's priest?," she asked plainly. "I am a sylvanite druid and a practiced healer. I can help you, but I'm not going to force my help on someone who doesn't trust my abilities. Decide."

The mage was silent for a moment, looking at her with an unreadable expression.

"Have you ever treated a similar case to a favourable outcome?"

"I have," the druid nodded. "A few times, actually."

"Sh-she has."

The elf turned his eyes to Khalid who sat a few paces away from them, wrapped in his old cloak and keeping an eye on their surroundings. The warrior slowly took off the glove from his right hand and rotated his wrist to one side, then to another.

"This one was once n-not better than yours are n-now," he gave the mage a lopsided smile. "Two fingers c-crushed, the rest broken and b-badly healed. A few days later, I could hold my s-sword with them. Jaheira is a _very_ s-skilled healer."

Xan still looked hesitant, but ultimately, he gave a small nod.

"Please, do what you can," he said to the druid in a resigned tone.

Vaire, who was observing them from above her spellbook, shifted uncomfortably. She suspected what was going to happen next – and truth to be told, she did not want to watch. Unfortunately, as soon as she finished that thought, the healer called her.

"Come here. You may learn something useful."

She blinked, sending the druid a disbelieving look.

"You know, this is probably not the best moment for a lesson...," she began tentatively.

"On the contrary," Jaheira interrupted, not even looking at her. "You are also a spellcaster. You should know how the treatment of such breaks and sprains looks like. Come here and bring your hairpins, we'll use them to make splints."

_'Oh, great.'_

She never felt particularly inclined to pursue a career of a healer. Back at home, she had been given only a basic first-aid training and she had been convinced that in case of an emergency, a reasonable supply of healing potions and antidotes should be enough to survive the trip to the nearest temple.

Jaheira had a different approach, though – and a rather poor opinion of the survival skills of anyone who was not a druid or a ranger – so at every given opportunity, she was engaging Vaire in her healer's activities, teaching her how to treat various injuries and how to manage without spells or potions, if necessary.

She had also tried that with Imoen, but so far, the pink-haired girl proved to be exceptionally good in getting her way out of such lessons.

When Vaire approached them, Jaheira already finished applying her numbing salve onto the wizard's hand.

"This should instantly dim the pain," she said and briefly flexed her own fingers. "Try to relax. Turn your head to the side if you prefer. This won't take long."

His eyes widened when the druid seized his wrist.

"On three," she announced briskly. "One..."

"Could you give me a mo-"

"Two."

...and 'three' never came. Jaheira was one of those healers who believed that catching the patient off-guard prevents him from becoming all tense and stiff in anticipation of pain.

Vaire had some serious doubts about that technique.

The wizard pressed his face to his shoulder and uttered a muffled wail of agony – and she slightly averted her eyes, wincing in sympathy. For a while, she could hear sounds of joints popping back into their places and then a few quick, sickening cracks of bones being re-broken and realigned, punctuated by even more heart-rending moans.

"Is that salve of yours even working?" she muttered.

"Give me two pins," the druid requested, glancing at her. "Have no worry, it is working. He would faint from shock otherwise. And now, watch..."

She obediently observed how to properly secure the pins with linen straps, creating a makeshift splints. She needed to admit that the druid worked really swiftly – splinting and bandaging was finished in no time, only the patient looked more miserable than before.

"There," the druid gave a satisfied nod, reaching for the salve. "To the second one."

"I would...," the mage whispered weakly. "I would prefer to faint first."

"Maybe you could give him a numbing potion?" Vaire suggested.

"I would give him one, had we any left," Jaheira frowned. "It wouldn't work as miraculously as you may think, though."

"Why?," she shook her head in disbelief.

"P-potions don't r-really h-h-help with this k-kind of p-pain," she heard the warrior's silent voice, his stutter a tad worse than usually. When she turned towards him, she noticed that he was staring into the distance, his expression closed off, his face shadowed by some unpleasant thoughts... or memories.

"T-t-trust me on th-that," he added solemnly, not looking at them.

"We are almost done. No fainting", Jaheira gave the patient a firm look, adjusting her grip. "On three. One..."

...and of course, 'two' never came. This time Vaire actually forced herself to watch how the druid was realigning a finger after finger, her motions quick, but perfectly precise – the whole thing looked almost easy when she was doing that. The wizard's reactions were no better than previously, but somehow, despite his earlier declaration, he managed to endure the entire procedure without fainting.

"Two more pins," the druid looked at her. "Can you produce some ice?"

"I can freeze a wet cloth with a cantrip."

Soon enough Xan was nursing his freshly bandaged fingers with a cold compress, his face relaxed in an expression of pure relief. The healer gave him a dose of regenerating tonic and began to gather her things.

"Tomorrow I'm going to treat you with a healing spell," she rose to her feet. "That should repair everything that won't regenerate through the night. Your fingers are going to be shaky and prone to spasms for some time after, but this is something that can be dealt with later."

He looked at her with a serious expression.

"Thank you," he said silently. "I have heard that in these lands, seldom a defenceless stranger is met with kindness. Your generosity won't be forgotten, I assure you...," again, that barely perceptible, half-depressed, half-bitter note. "...although I may not stay alive long enough to repay you in any way."

"Don't mention it," the healer's tone was dismissive and somewhat weary, since she was already turning towards her bedroll. She undoubtedly needed her rest, just like her husband, who was preparing to join her.

Vaire wasn't really surprised by the mage's pessimistic display of gratitude. Injured, unable to use his magic _and_ his sword, forced to rely on people he knew next to nothing about... It was not a situation to anyone's liking – especially not to someone who apparently preferred to work alone, depending on himself and eventually on others of his kind.

_'Evereskan,' _she reminded herself. She had never met one, and a Greycloak to that, but she had heard that elves from such secluded realms were even more wary of strangers than others.

Putting the casket with remaining hairpins back into her bag, she ran her hand through her hastily washed hair. They were still half-braided, stiff and matted with the memory of dirt, and they were in dire need of proper brushing.

_'That's it,'_ she decided.

She retrieved a comb and a brush out of a small, embroidered satchel and walked a few paces away from the camp, absentmindedly tucking loose strands behind her ear.

Wrapping her greyish-green cloak tighter around her body, she seated herself in the same spot where the warrior sat a only a while ago – a perfect place to spend the watch, partially hidden behind rocks, but with a good view on the nearby part of the valley.

She was about to remove the first hairpin from her already loose bun when she heard a soft sound somewhere behind her. She turned her head.

The wizard was looking – no, he was _staring_ at her with a shocked expression. A compress had slipped from between his fingers and was laying next to him, but for some reason, he made no move to pick it up, as though not even noticing.

Her eyes widened slightly.

Had he seen something in the darkness?

She discreetly looked around, searching the area for any signs of danger. Her right hand instinctively went to the hilt of her sword, her other one already moving towards the satchel with spell components. She could not see anything suspicious, though. The night was moonless and the shadows in the mountains were always particularly dark, but her eyes were keen – there was no trace of movement anywhere, only the wind was sweeping over the neighbouring scree, raising small clouds of dust here and there.

She glanced at the mage.

"Is anything amiss?," she whispered... and blinked.

To her utter confusion, he was perfectly composed now, as though nothing happened. He slowly placed the compress back between his palms, not even looking in her direction – in fact, he was apparently trying to look anywhere _but_ at her.

"No," there was a strained note in his voice. "No, nothing is amiss. I just..."

His eyes, colourless in the darkness, darted to her face once more – or maybe rather to her -

_'Oh.'_

She gave a small, relieved sigh, immediately relaxing her posture. Seriously, for a moment she was convinced that he had seen something from the lower planes in front of him.

"Just noticed _those_, you mean?," she cocked her head to the side and briefly touched the elongated tip of her ear, giving him a small smile. "I had no idea they look so terrible, you know. Judging by your reaction, one could think that I've just grown a pair of horns."

"Forgive me. I had no intention to startle you," he subtly inclined his head in a gesture of apologetic acknowledgement. He lowered his gaze and turned his attention back to his hands, seemingly unfazed, but she already caught a glimpse of wary curiosity in his eyes.

_'Ah, let's get it over with...'_

"It is all right. I have already noticed that some people are confused by those ears of mine," she began, brushing an invisible dust from her knee and trying to sound casual. "I am usually taken for a half-elf, but from time to time, someone more observant takes a look at my ears and suddenly becomes all perplexed about what to think about me. Especially the elves," she forced a smile, but somehow, it came out slightly bitter. "Instead of asking, though, they just send me those... furtive glances. I suppose it is understandable, though. In some way, I am an elf... and yet, I am not one."

His gaze was again on her, so she straightened her back and slightly raised her chin, just enough to look a bit more confident than she was at the moment. Her eyes remained focused on her lap, though.

"I have been fostered by a human," she continued. "I have been raised mostly among humans, without any contact with..."

She paused for a heartbeat. Sometimes she had a problem with that part. 'With her kin?' 'With her people?' Were elves even _her_ people, since as far as she knew, most of them would not even call someone like her a _Tel'Quess_?

"...with elven culture," she finished. "For that reason, I am mostly ignorant about your ways. I managed to learn a few things about your customs from books and tales, and I know the basics of your language, but I am aware that it is not much."

_'Not enough,' _she corrected inwardly.

She braced herself for eventual questions, still feeling slightly awkward. She should probably get used to such situations, but...

Back at home, she had been perfectly comfortable with being _who_ she was, since no one there seemed to care about _what_ she was. Sometimes she had heard a joke or two about her ears, or even a few crude anecdotes from the dwarven guard, but they had never bothered her really in any way. She was used to being acknowledged as a person – a daughter, a friend, a student, a companion – not as a representative of a specific race.

She was just... Vaire. She was convinced that her blood or her ears should not really matter to anyone, since it was not_ all of her_.

But outside of her home, things were apparently different. Every time some other elf confronted her about her heritage – and she had met nearly a dozen of them by now, mostly merchants and travellers – she was usually being treated with concealed pity or distrust, or she was openly looked down on, like she was...

_'...not enough.'_

_S_he forced herself to finally meet the wizard's gaze. To her relief, his face was a perfect picture of calm, almost cool indifference.

"I see," he nodded solemnly, looking at her. "I admit that for a moment, I have been wondering... But again, forgive me," he suddenly interrupted himself mid-sentence, shaking his head. "You should not feel obliged to explain anything to anyone."

"I prefer to call it 'clearing things up'," she shrugged. "I know that I am something of an oddity among the elves, and I know that some elves tend to be... a bit wary of the ones like me, so...," she trailed off.

The mage was silent. His expression did not change and thankfully, he did not seem interested in asking any questions, so this was probably a good moment to either end this conversation or to change the topic.

She quickly looked around in search for inspiration and almost instantly found one.

_'How very convenient.'_

"My cantrip is dissipating," she pointed at the slightly damp compress. "I should probably strengthen it. If I may...?"

.

The frozen cloth was blissfully cold against his bandaged hands. His fingers were still swollen, but the pain finally subsided – at least to the point when he was able to forgive the druid that she had deceived him with that old 'on three' trick.

How strange was his fate. He had been dying only a while ago, and now... Now he was not only alive, but also relatively clean and maybe even not permanently damaged. His blade, his cloak and his travelling bag – everything had been returned to him and no one had tried to rob him (_'...yet...'_). He had been given water, he had been fed and taken care of. When he was summing things up like that, the whole situation sounded nothing short of a... of a...

_'...miracle.'_

He sighed heavily. He had little faith in miracles. Well, perhaps some benevolent deity had mistaken him for one of their favourites and smiled upon him once or twice in his life – but he had learnt that gods were quick to notice and fix such mistakes. He only needed to wait.

In the meantime, though, he had a lot to think about.

His hands were useless for now, so without his spells and his sword, his mind was his only weapon. He had acquired a lot of new informations – and now he needed to sort them out, he needed to determine how to make use of them in the best possible way. The iron crisis and the cyricist's role in it. The connections between Tranzig and Tazok, two names he had heard while being a prisoner. The exact role of his current company in the recent events. Their possible affiliations. Their trustworthiness. The probability of being betrayed by them, abandoned to death, sold to slave traders, murdered...

...and on the top of that, only a few moments ago he realized that this young woman he had already labelled as (_'...Moretriel... no, wait... what an absurd thought__...'_) a _zenar-bhen_ was actually a pureblood elf. Seldarine, those few tendays spent at the bottom of the mines had clearly damaged his brain – there was no other explanation, or at least he could not see one.

Now he had even _more_ to think about.

He discreetly watched her from beneath his half-closed eyelids, still baffled at his own ignorance. She was sitting with her back turned to him, attending to her hair and apparently unaware of his attention. She was most likely convinced that he was already in a _reverie_, since after re-freezing his compress some time ago, she bid him a good night.

After combing her hair and dealing with a few particularly stubborn knots, she began to brush it with unhurried movements. She turned her head to the side, her eyes shut in quiet contentment.

It was not very polite to observe a barely known elven woman during her brushing ritual. In any other circumstances, he would probably turn his eyes elsewhere, but... it was not like he was observing her out of idle curiosity.

His gaze slowly traced the line of her profile, pausing at every curve and analysing proportions, searching for a familiar pattern. Now it was practically easy to discern her true heritage. Her features were finely chiselled and undeniably elven, with a hint of barely perceptible softness that betrayed her age – she was clearly young, surely no more than one hundred years old.

Humans were unaccustomed to pay attention to such details, so it was no wonder that they were usually taking her for a _zenar-bhen_. And elves... He supposed that they might be initially misled by her behaviour, just as he had been, but sooner or later, they were bound to notice the difference. Her ears were not the only feature that betrayed her heritage, even though she might be convinced otherwise.

She was still brushing her hair, apparently not planning to finish anytime soon. The view was certainly (_'...beautiful...'_) pleasant to the eye, but the rhythm of her movements began to slowly soothe his mind into a dream-like state, so ultimately, he decided to close his eyes against the distraction.

_'An oddity.'_

It was extremely rare for an elven child to be raised away from her kin. It was... It was unheard of, actually. Of course, sometimes children were losing their parents too soon – such tragedies were unavoidable in those uncertain times – but no elven community would allow a human to foster an orphaned elven child.

He wondered briefly how she had ended up being raised by humans. One of the probable explanations was that the elves had no knowledge about her whereabouts, or even about her very existence. Her human guardians had made a grave mistake by keeping her instead of making an effort to return her to her kin... but now it was too late.

She might be young, but she was clearly not a child anymore. She grew into _N'Tel'Quess_, into not-elf – a stranger among her own. He felt a pang of compassion at the thought.

She clearly knew that she was not a true _Tel'Quess_. 'Your ways,' she said earlier. 'Your customs.' 'Your language.' And that half-bitter, slightly broken smile – the smile of someone who was given a shard of glass and now tries to convince the world that holding it doesn't hurt.

She had mentioned wary glances, but the consequences of being _N'Tel'Quess _went deeper than that. Was she even aware of them? She would never find a home in any elven enclave. She would never be fully accepted in any elven community. She was doomed to live as an outcast... although probably not overly long.

There were a few stories about such individuals known in Evereska – stories composed mostly of second-hand memories and gossips, told around the tavern tables in lowered voices and listened to with a mixture of disbelief, horror and pity. None of them was a happy one. None of them ended well.

Elves raised by humans were said to be like unbalanced blades – chaotic, unpredictable, sometimes even suicidal. They lived in a state of a permanent identity crisis. Their nature made them ill-suited for living a human life, but at the same time, they were unable to live like the elves, unattuned to the elven spirituality and unprepared for the prospect of centuries stretching before them. They usually spiralled down into the madness and ended their lives shortly after, torn apart by their inner dissonances...

His thoughts paused for the moment.

Could she be already... insane? In his profession, dealing with various kinds of insanity was sometimes inevitable, but after his recent encounter with that mad cyricist, he would really prefer to avoid the company of people who were mentally unstable.

He cracked his eyes open and for a few heartbeats stared at the back of her head, as though searching for an answer. He had caught a few glimpses of her personality earlier , but it was certainly not enough to form any decent opinion about the state of her mind. He would need more informations for that – although given her choice of a career, he suspected that if she was not insane, then she was at least somewhat suicidal already.

_'Adventurer.' _He cringed inwardly. He really did not like that word.

On the other hand – since she was apparently searching for _adventures _– she was doomed to die soon. Statistics were inexorable. One of the most typical consequences of such a lifestyle was dying at a young age, usually during the first few years of living on the road.

He closed his eyes again, thinking that perhaps her ultimate fate would not be as utterly tragic as those unfortunate souls from the tavern stories. Considering her occupation, she was most likely going to meet her end before succumbing to any kind of madness induced by her identity issues. Such an end would be surely (_'...bitter...'_) better than the alternative.

Having disposed thus of her future demise, Xan turned his thoughts to other matters he needed to deal with.

He had a lot to think about.

.

_Something startled her out of her sleep. She blinked and shivered, instantly wrapping the cloak tighter around her frame and trying to determine why she was so terribly cold. The night was pretty much warm for that season of the year – and yet she was practically chilled to the bone, as though... as though someone has walked across her grave._

_She looked around. Where was everyone? Why could she see all those empty bedrolls scattered around the camp, but no trace of her companions anywhere?_

_A sudden fear seized her._

_She was alone. _

_She was all alone here – in those strange mountains in the middle of nowhere. Something was telling her that it was not a good place. She could sense it, she could almost see it within her mind... It was a place where things made of shadows were creeping and crawling across the barren hills. It was a place where dead ones were squirming in their underground cradles, their bodies bloated and restless like grubs..._

_'Feed me!'_

_She immediately turned her head to the side, but caught only a glimpse of a tiny black tail vanishing inside the pile of Imoen's leathers. Something began to rummage through them, making sickening, hungry noises._

_'Feed me!'_

_She grimaced, but remained silent, trying to ignore that whiny, mewling voice. Somehow, it always sounded like a bad imitation of her own._

_The rummaging and noises stopped after a moment. Something darted from under dirty pieces of armor, then hopped onto the Imoen's bedroll and quickly hid inside, worming its way under the woollen covering. She could not see it anymore, but she could sense that it was restless, like a kitten that is up to some mischief._

_Suddenly, the ground beneath her opened like a giant wound._

_Before she could even properly scream, she was falling down – first through the darkness of mining ramps and shafts, then through the underground tunnels and caves, moving across their walls and floors with a dizzying speed. Everything was empty, though. Even the levels that should be still full of kobolds seemed silent and... dead._

_What had happened to this place?_

_'You know,' Something whispered into her thoughts. 'You happened.'_

_She was diving deeper into the earth, dragged by some invisible force. Darkness and shadows and torchlights were swirling around her now, clinging to her clothes and sticking to her skin like that accursed cave mud she could not get rid of. She gave a frustrated cry, feeling unable to do anything about it._

_Another rocky wall. Another passage. And suddenly, the fabric of her dream stretched beneath her presence like an enormous sheet and caught her mid-fall._

_Everything around her went still._

_She realized that she was standing in a familiar cave now. The place had to look like a luxurious chamber once – but now the heavy curtains hanging from the walls were mostly torn and singed from the magical fire, the furnitures were either damaged or smashed to pieces, and the carpets were stained with ashes and blood... The battle was definitely one of those messy ones._

_The pretentious throne standing on the podium in the far corner of the cave was probably the only thing that managed to stay relatively untouched. _

_She turned her head to the side and..._

_No, that couldn't be._

_'Mulahey?,' she whispered, narrowing her eyes at him._

_The creature did not respond, standing motionlessly a few paces away from her, apparently unable to move. He looked more like a corpse than like a living thing – a bloated grub that should bury itself in the ground long ago – but his eyes were still burning with the madness that apparently had been bestowed upon him by his god. His battered armor was covered with fresh blood and his throat was split open, the gaping wound even more raw and red than she remembered it to be._

_'Feed me!'_

_She gave an annoyed sigh and glanced behind her. Something was sitting on one of the cushions scattered around the floor, trying its best to look and sound like a helpless, hungry kitten that needed to be taken care of._

_She knew better, though. She shook her head and turned her attention back to Mulahey._

_Only then she realized that she was holding..._

_...a sword?_

_Where did that come from? With a perplexed frown, she examined the weapon that had materialized in her hand only a while ago. Its shape was vaguely familiar and would probably remind her of her own blade, but at the same time, it seemed to have a foreign quality to it. Its handle was unpleasantly coarse and felt... not right, as though the whole thing was ill-balanced or ill-suited for her grip._

_'Feed,' Something purred encouragingly, approaching her side, but as always, cautiously keeping out of her range. 'He is here for us. He is ours to feed upon.'_

_She noticed that it moved more slowly now, almost dragging its hind legs behind it. They suddenly became malformed and too long for its little form, twisted outwards in a way that should not be anatomically possible. The sharp angles of knee joints were all wrong. The view was utterly disturbing._

_She looked back at the apparition of Mulahey and after a moment she could feel that his thoughts were slowly seeping straightly into her mind. He was apparently waiting for her. He had been anchored to this place by whatever force deemed it necessary and he was cursing his fate, judging by the furious gleam in his eyes. He was waiting for her to..._

_Her eyebrows rose._

_...to kill him..._

_...again?_

_'Does he not deserve it?,' Something lazily flicked its little tail. 'Have you already forgotten about all those murdered miners? Have you forgotten about that poor elven mage?'_

_She frowned._

_She remembered, of course._

_'Let us make this one here... pay for that,' Something purred, kneading the ground under its front paws with kitten-like impatience. As for the contrast, its deformed hind legs began to twitch and scramble hideously, as though in preparation for a jump. 'Let us kill him again... this time more slowly... and perhaps a bit more painfully...'_

_Wait._

_Was it repeating her own thoughts?_

_Well, there had been that one moment in the mines..._

_The memories were swirling in her mind now, making her anger flare up. She remembered – oh yes, she remembered! The corpses of innocent people... The elven mage at the verge of agony... Even those kobolds, tens and hundreds of creatures deceived into becoming tools of a madman... She gripped the handle of the sword more tightly, suddenly finding it coarse like a piece of an old bone._

_Mulahey's hateful eyes were boring into hers._

_She clenched her teeth, preparing to strike, although..._

_...somehow, this felt wrong – just as that blade felt wrong in her hand._

_And the longer she was looking at the cyricist's unmoving form, the less angry and the more absurd she felt._

_He was not attacking her. He was not even moving. Was she supposed to stab and hack at his motionless body? Was she supposed to widen that mortal wound she had given him, even though it was already wide enough?_

_She blinked. This would be pointless. He was not even her opponent anymore. He had been already defeated and slain. He was just a corpse now – a restless corpse, but a corpse nonetheless, for gods' sake..._

_She stepped away from him, letting the sword clatter to the floor._

_She was neither a necromancer, nor a gravedigger to deal with corpses._

_Something wailed loudly in disapproval, but she decided to ignore it completely._

_Mulahey's form began to slowly fade into the surrounding shadows and soon it vanished completely, leaving only a faint trace of surprised – and perhaps also a tad thankful – thoughts behind it._

_She allowed those thoughts to brush against her mind. Their current was so subtle that she could barely sense it – but somehow, it was strong enough to wash away that persistent darkness that seemed to cling to her._

_It was a good feeling._

_It was a good decision._

_She turned away..._

_...and backed off in spite of herself._

_Something was perched at the armrest of the abandoned throne. She noticed that its deformed hind legs were now even longer than previously and they were apparently still growing – the skin on them was undulating, as though there were worms wriggling beneath it._

_'You ungrateful brat!,' it hissed accusingly, half-jumping, half-tumbling down onto the floor. 'Do you think that you can starve me endlessly? You are weak now. You are weak and alone.'_

_She was about to defiantly shake her head – but to her horror, she found out that she was not able move her body, as though suddenly paralysed with a spell._

_'No father. No family. No home to return to,' Something began to slowly crawl in her direction. It was bigger than she could ever remember it to be – not a hungry cat anymore, but an emaciated mountain lion. Its abominable hind legs were dotted with spikes and black scales now, but they were still twisted and useless like two parasitic limbs._

_She wanted to die at the very thought of that thing getting anywhere near her._

_'Nowhere to go. Nowhere to belong,' the voice still resembled hers, but it was becoming strangely distorted. 'You are not enough. You will never be enough. But we will... change that.'_

_For some reason, the word 'change' made her ___scream internally _ with fear – that deep, dark, primeval kind of fear that was reducing a person to a puppet sewn from fight-or-flight reactions. She could not fight, though. She could not fly, either. She could only continue her desperate, but dreadfully silent scream, watching the creature of her nightmares crawling towards her across the bloodstained carpets._

_'You will learn to feed me,' Something snarled, showing its unnaturally human teeth._

_It launched its deformed body towards her legs._

_'You... WILL... learn!'_

.

She awoke with a start.

As always, the nightmare immediately seeped out of her memory, leaving only a few fragmented, blurred images of underground corridors and caves. Her body, though, was not as quick to forget. Heaving out a shaky breath, she buried her face in her hands and focused on her breathing, waiting for her heart to slow down and trying to ignore the fact that she was visibly trembling.

She silently laid back, adjusting the coverings of the bedroll around her and hoping that this time, no one had noticed anything. The night was still dark – her sister was sleeping soundly, the druid was clearly also asleep, judging by the rhythm of her breathing, and Khalid... He had taken the watch after her, but apparently, he had found a new watching spot and he was sitting a bit further from the camp now. He had a really good hearing, but there was a chance that from that distance, he had not heard her. Good.

She swiftly reached to her bag to retrieve a half-empty bottle of a calming draught.

Waiting for the trembling to subside, she suddenly remembered that there was one more person with them now. She briefly glanced towards the mage who was sitting in the exact same position as earlier, leaning against the rocky wall with his legs drawn to his chin, wrapped in his grey cloak. She supposed that he was still in a _reverie_, but since he was an elf and his senses were much more -

Oh, nevermind.

She gave a tired sigh and rolled onto her back, staring into the darkness. Even if he had noticed – so what? It was not like he was seeing her awakening from a nightmare almost every night, unlike the rest of her companions.

They were beginning to worry about her. Imoen was especially concerned, since she was the only person here who knew about her previous nightmare episodes, the ones that had been tormenting her when she had been fourteen or so. Jaheira seemed to suspect that it was not a new problem and that its roots went deeper than the recent stress and grief – she had not confronted her about that yet, but Vaire sensed that it was only a matter of time.

She closed her eyes.

There was nothing to worry about. She was not even remembering those nightmares. They were bound to subside in time, just like the ones from her youth. Perhaps they were even the same. They certainly _felt_ the same, somehow.

She could only hope that for now, no one suspected her of going insane or anything like that.

.

* _N'Tel'Quess_ \- non-elf, 'not one of the People', a term used also in relation to elven outcasts

* _Tel'Quess_ \- elf, 'one of the People'

* _Tel'Quessir _\- elves

* _reverie_ \- a dream-like state, an elven form of sleep


	3. Chapter 3: Lyth'avel

**Author's note:**_ I really hope that one day, I will be able to write those nice, short, pleasant to read chapters so many people are fond of... For now, here is yet another long one. As always, thank you to everyone who reads and a special thank you to those who review :)_

_If anyone would like to take a look, a few months ago I made an art connected to this story - you can find it on my deviantart (aurieneaewen/art/Moretriel-831347157)._

_The title of this chapter, 'Lyth'avel', means 'a child with a sword.' _

* * *

Chapter 3

**Lyth'avel**

**.**

The chill leaking through his clothes and spreading across his body made him stir and frown. He curled more into himself, shifted away from what probably was a cold rock behind his back and buried his face into the fabric of his cloak, letting out a sleepy sigh (_'...tired, so terribly tired...'_).

The reality was slowly creeping into his mind, forcing him to focus on his surroundings. He could hear the usual sounds of the camp life all around him – the leather being scraped clean of dried dirt, the clasps and buckles clanking occasionally, the rustle of equipment being checked and packed, the soft sound of scribbling somewhere in the background...

He suppressed yet another sigh. The mere thought about lifting his eyelids was unbearable – a typical consequence of slipping from _reverie_ into a state of sleep – but since everyone else was apparently up... He tentatively opened his eyes and slowly raised his head, looking around.

"Mornin', mister wizard!," he almost flinched when the bright, cheerful voice slapped him square in the face. Too loud. Too energetic. Too... everything.

Not even two paces away from him, he spotted the pink-haired human girl. Seated on her already rolled bedroll and armed with at least a few cloths and a brush, she was cleaning her equipment, still covered in some places with crusts of cave mud. To the mage's utter bewilderment, she was also, ah... _beaming _at him – that was probably the right word for such an expression. How was that even possible to possess such a ridiculously expansive smile?

"Have ya slept well?," she cocked her head to the side like a pink-feathered bird.

His only reply was a sullen stare. He had slept, indeed... but certainly not well. Sleeping was not a normal way of resting for the elves and it was incredibly exhausting for the elven mind.

He had fallen asleep only a few times in his life, since it was experienced almost solely by those who were severely weakened, wounded or dying – and it was never as pleasant as _reverie_. Sleeping resembled swimming in a chaotic void where scraps of memories, fantasies and thoughts were raging free, sometimes merging together and creating bizarre images or visions.

He was deeply grateful that Sehanine Lateu had spared him those so far. He remembered his father having visions at some points in his life and he dreaded the thought that one night, the goddess might also decide to bestow one upon him. They were said to be disturbing and often frightening.

"Hey, no need ta look at me like that. I mean, um... I know that sleepin' on the hard ground's absolutely awful an' all, but... thought I may ask anyway," the pink-haired girl shrugged, still smiling.

He sighed and wanted to drag his hands across his face, but then he remembered that they were still bandaged.

"Leave him be, child," the druid approached him with a cup of water and a few pieces of travellers' bread. "And hurry up with that cleaning. At this pace, you won't finish until tomorrow, and this armour should've been cleaned yesterday," the woman's not-so-gentle voice hardened even more.

"I know, I know," the girl nodded, trying to sound dutifully – but her sparkling eyes were suggesting that she did not really care. "By the way, auntie," her tone suddenly became mischievous. "Why's it always _me_ who's called a child in our lil' company? Where's the justice? We're almost the same age, me sis an' me."

Xan produced an inarticulate sound followed by coughing, choking briefly on the first sip of a water.

'Almost the same age'? He must had misheard...

"The age doesn't necessarily reflect one's maturity," the druid replied calmly, in the meantime slapping him hard on the back. The wizard stammered a silent 'thank you', finally overcoming his coughing fit.

"As for that justice you apparently seek, the rules are simple," the healer raised to her feet and glanced at the pink-haired girl. "Stop acting like a child if you don't want to be called one. Show that you can be responsible and reliable. I may address you as an adult more often then... although probably not anytime soon," she muttered.

"Care ta make a bet?," the girl retorted with a roguish grin.

He was not really listening to them anymore. Drinking the water, this time more slowly, he was observing the silvery-haired elf from above the edge of his cup, his eyes darting occasionally between her and the human girl, assessing their age... or rather, _her_ age.

She was lounging on her bedroll in a rather casual manner, with her elbow propped up on her travelling bag, occupied with writing in what was probably her journal. How old could that pink-headed creature be? Two decades, at most? That would mean that she would be... certainly not a hundred years old... not even five decades...

At some point, she must had felt his gaze on herself because she paused and looked back straightly at him, her pen hovering in the air like an unuttered question mark.

_(...not even forty...)_

He was probably regarding her with the same kind of disbelief – or shock – that she had seen on his face an evening before, because a flash of recognition crossed her eyes. To his credit, he had not dropped anything this time... although he needed to admit that for the briefest of moments, his jaw went slack.

_(...Seldarine, surely not twenty-something...?)_

She sent him a small, enigmatic smile, as if guessing his thoughts, and resumed her writing. The soft sound of scribbling continued, punctuated with an occasional flourish and a rustle of page being turned.

* * *

Shortly after the sunrise, the druid's husband returned from his scouting excursion with an arrow sticking from his shield. The news he was bringing were far from good – the western mountains that separated the valley from the mining site were apparently swarming with kobolds, so crossing them was not a safe option.

"T-they m-may be in disarray for now, but t-that makes them even more dangerous," Khalid thoroughly examined the kobold arrow before tossing it aside, his expression grim. "I was surprised t-to find their scouts s-so close to our location. T-there must be m-many of them out there, m-more than we've seen in the mines."

"No wonder they're so determined to get to us," Jaheira narrowed her eyes. "They're convinced that we've killed their god. I take it that the northern road is also out of question?"

Khalid only shook his head.

"W-we may break through to the north and reach the Uldoon T-trail, but I w-wouldn't advise it. With all these b-b-bandits... W-we should p-probably find another route."

Vaire's heart sank. From her meagre travelling experience, 'another route' was usually bound to be much, _much_ longer than the previously planned one, and sometimes not exactly safer.

The couple began to discuss possible ways of bypassing the mountains, trying to determine which direction would be the safest one – the task was not easy, since none of them was exactly familiar with this area. They were talking mostly between themselves at first, using various terms that were barely recognizable to anyone who was not skilled in the ways of wilderness, but when they finally came to an agreement, Jaheira took on a role of a tutor and sketched a makeshift map on the rocky wall.

"This valley seems to be stretching further to the south-east," two lines were made with a worn out piece of chalk. "Then it becomes wider and, if we're correct, arches to the west, cutting into those mountains here," a few more lines and uneven zigzag, barely visible against the sun-bleached surface. "Taking the route through the valley, we should be able to reach the mountain forests south of the town and the river...," yet another line, "...that would lead us straightly to Nashkel."

The elven girl frowned.

"How long will it take?"

"Four or five days."

"_That_ long?," Imoen's eyebrows shot up. "Shouldn't we return as quickly as possible? 'Tis the iron crisis we're dealin' with here, people. The whole town awaits the news, the mayor prob'ly walked a hole in the floor by now..."

She paused, noticing a few surprised looks.

"What? Tryin' ta think like a responsible adult here," she shrugged.

"W-well... In this case, b-better be safe than sorry," the warrior frowned, studying the sketchy map. "W-we won't bring any n-news to anyone if we g-got ourselves k-k-killed. I'm also n-not happy about the d-delay, but w-we need to get to the town alive."

Vaire nodded reluctantly, agreeing with him. The druid and her husband were experienced travellers, after all. They surely knew what they were doing.

She turned to the elven mage, sitting a few paces away from everyone. He had been so quiet for the entire morning, seemingly absorbed by studying his freshly unbandaged fingers, that one might easily forget about his very existence. Since he was in no state to fight kobolds and bandits, he was probably somewhat relieved to hear that they were planning to take the safest route possible... although for some reason, he did not voice his opinion so far.

"And what do you think?," she asked him.

He tore his gaze from his hands and looked at her. His eyes, grey in the morning light, were unreadable, but she could swear that she caught a flash of surprise in them.

"About what?," he replied with a question of his own.

"About this route," she clarified, nodding towards the map.

A moment of silence went by.

"Am I to understand that you plan to...," he paused for another heartbeat, as if unsure. "...to allow me to travel with you to the town?"

Vaire blinked, taken aback by this question.

"I am sorry, were you convinced otherwise?"

"I -"

"Now, listen here, mister wizard," Imoen raised a hand, interrupting him. Her tone was light, but there was a serious note in it. "I dunno with whom ye're hangin' out earlier, but we're decent folk. An' we're not leavin' other decent people in the middle of nowhere after rescuin' them," she glanced at the druid and the warrior. "Am I right?"

Khalid nodded solemnly, although he looked like he tried not to smile.

"V-very much so," he nodded.

Jaheira sent the wizard a sharp look.

"As a healer, I don't have a habit of patching people up only to leave them to certain death on the next day," she informed him flatly. "You are free to decide, but be assured that no one here would mind you joining us. You shouldn't be travelling alone, anyway."

The mage was staring at them for a moment before giving a small nod.

Vaire cleared her throat.

"So, about this route...?"

"I am afraid that I know next to nothing about this land," he sighed, shaking his head. "I have travelled here along this northern trail you mentioned, and it was terribly dangerous back then, but it was tendays ago...," his eyes swept across the druid's sketch, pausing briefly over the river line. "Taking the southern path seems like a reasonable choice. There will be a cost to it, though."

Imoen suddenly straightened.

"Please don't tell me that Amnians are collectin' road tolls in this area," she crossed her arms over her chest. "'Cause if they are, we aren't payin' them a single damn coin," she stated firmly, her expression dead serious. "They're not even doin' their job at keepin' these bloody routes safe."

"Some costs cannot be measured in coins," the wizard responded sombrely, not even looking at her. "The news about the events in the mines will probably reach the cyricist's spies soon. They will have enough time to vanish from this region, covering up their traces and most likely leaving false ones behind. All your hard work, all your efforts will be in vain."

"Not all, for sure," Vaire frowned, thinking. "But you have a point. Mulahey must had some other messengers and spies than kobolds. Maybe some of them are still active here, somewhere between the mines and the town."

She turned to the druid.

"We should probably spare some time to discuss these letters you have found..."

"Later," Jaheira, clearly considering the discussion closed, put the piece of chalk back into one of her many pockets and stood up, glancing at the sky. "We need to go now. We've tarried here too long already. Whatever allies the priest might have here, we cannot sit and wait for them to find us," not waiting for an answer, she turned to her husband. "I'm going to go first and check the road ahead," she announced. "Make sure to cover up the traces of the camp and meet me with the others near the flat-topped rock south from here. Vaire, gather your things. You're coming with me."

_'A scouting lesson? Seriously?'_

The elven girl groaned inwardly, getting to her feet. She was struggling to keep up with an accelerated course of healing and survival techniques already.

Collecting her bag, she glanced towards the elven mage. He was morosely silent – again. After the breakfast, the druid had given him some kind of a potion and now he was staring at it as if he was trying to drown his thoughts in it, his expression closed off.

To her mild surprise, though, he raised his head when she was walking by.

"Wait."

It probably did not even qualify as a whisper. If not for her acute hearing, she would probably not heard him. She paused mid-step, sending him a questioning look.

Instead of an answer, he held out to her a small bunch of her hairpins that had been previously used for splinting his fingers. They were wrapped in a neatly folded piece of cloth – the same one she had used to make a compress for him an evening before.

"Thank you," he said in a quiet tone.

She felt a small surge of gratitude. She was already quite used to losing any borrowed hairpins permanently – mainly to Imoen, who had been notoriously using them for lock picking since she was twelve – so getting them back for once was a nice change.

"Think nothing of it," she took the bundle from him, stealing a look at his hands to see how they had healed. There was no trace of previous injuries on them, save for a few purple bruises pooling underneath his nails.

"They look much better today," she said softly.

He nodded barely visibly, but said nothing. He merely returned to staring into his cup, calmly ignoring his surroundings – her included.

She blinked, slightly perplexed by his behaviour. Then, shrugging mentally, she tucked the hairpins into her bag and turned away, following the druid.

_'Well, it was nice talking to you too.'_

* * *

The pink-haired girl finished taking care of her armour and now pulled out of her pocket something that looked like a leather fan... but what was in fact a case full of thin, throwing daggers. Smiling fondly, she took one small blade out and twirled it in her hand with a dexterous ease.

He eyed her apprehensively. The combination of her youthful, innocent look and that dagger-twirling gesture looked disturbing, to say the least. She was too young to be truly proficient in weapons of any kind, not to mention fighting.

Sometimes he was forgetting that humans tended to start so early.

And that elven girl? She was _not even thirty_, apparently – and for some reason, this revelation was returning to the surface of his mind over and over again, refusing to sink in. He was probably still too shocked to properly process it.

How was that even possible – little more than an adolescent and already wielding a weapon, dabbling in magic, fighting kobolds...? Within any elven community, she would be considered barely old enough to decide what she wants to study or what craft she wants to pursue. What kind of a twisted sandglass was Labelas using for measuring her lifetime?

She was a child... with a longsword.

Seldarine, this world was a mad and broken place...

His musings were suddenly interrupted by the half-elven warrior who approached him with a metallic rustle of his armour.

"W-we have a long day ahead of us," he spoke. "We're going to m-march as long as the w-weather allows it. H-how do you feel?"

_'Tired, confused, miserable...'_

"Better, thank you," he said aloud. "Your healer companion gave me a watered down potion of fortitude, so I should be able to keep up with you."

The man frowned.

"Speaking of p-potions, you seem to carry n-none," he observed, glancing down at the row of empty potion cases attached to the mage's belt. Then he slid his travelling bag off of his shoulders. "This w-won't do. Take s-some of mine, at least f-for now,"

Xan sent him a startled look.

"You should probably keep them," he shook his head. "You have already used up enough of your supplies because of me, and besides... I have a stock of potions inside my bag."

"Then w-why haven't you taken them out by now?"

He did not respond at once. He was half-convinced that no one would ask him this question. Ah, well.

"I am... unable to open some pockets of my bag of holding," he admitted, gathering remains of his dignity and putting them together as best as he could. "The cyricist attempted to break the wards, but somehow ended up modifying them in the process..."

"I can help ya with that," the pink-haired girl piped in. "I'm good with openin' things!"

"That won't be necessary," he protested hastily. Letting a human child anywhere near damaged magical wards sounded like a recipe for a widespread destruction. "I should be able to repair it myself as soon as my fingers are better."

_'Oh, who am I kidding...'_

He was terrible at object-bound spells. His potions, scrolls and many other things were probably lost to him forever, unless he stumbles across some skilled artificer... and of course, knowing his luck, this region probably lacked a competent one.

The warrior looked like he was sensing his doubts, but decided not to ask.

"H-here," he said simply and handed the mage two healing potions, some kind of a home-brewed antidote – of acceptable quality, he concluded, assessing its colour and consistency – and... three tiny, grey phials?

"What are these?," he asked, taking one and trying to study its contents against the light. He experimentally tapped his finger against the dark glass and frowned. Was it empty, or...?

Then he understood and his eyes widened.

"_Alus'niemel_?"

"P-potion of invisibility," the man nodded, confirming his guess. "Small d-doses. Should w-work a quarter of c-candle each."

"This is... truly generous of you," the wizard stammered, not even trying to hide the fact that he was taken aback. Such potions were neither cheap, nor exactly common in these lands. "But why exactly are you giving them to me?"

The half-elf rose to his feet.

"In case of, ah... t-troubles.," he said, for some reason sounding apologetic. "W-we may encounter some enemies along the w-way, and if it comes t-to fight... You should p-probably s-s-stay away from danger for now."

Xan momentarily stiffened.

"Of course," he nodded, tucking the phials into the cases in his belt and keeping his expression carefully blank. "I... thank you."

When the warrior finally left him alone, the mage drew a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. Then he let out an equally deep sigh and examined his fingers, probably for the hundredth time this morning.

They looked deceivingly normal. The bones had been mended, the joints were not swollen anymore, even the bruises around his knuckles faded completely thanks to the druid's healing salve and spells... They were still weak and shaky, though. Too weak to wield the blade. Too shaky to weave anything more than a few basic cantrips. Useless.

_'In case of troubles...'_

How... How humiliating.

He was just reminded that he was a trouble himself.

* * *

The 'scouting lesson,' as Vaire had called it, was going rather smoothly. They had stopped near the lone, tower-shaped rock formation south of the camp and climbed it, planning to look around. The elf had been unsure at first, since most of her climbing experience was limited to library ladders – but after a few instructions and with some help, she managed to keep up with the druid well enough, her natural agility helping her greatly.

They had stopped on a narrow rock shelf before actually reaching the top, not wanting to risk being spotted from the distance on the background of the sky. The nearest area looked clear, not counting a pack of wild dogs treading the trackless ground in the distance.

"The weather's going to change in a few hours," the druid narrowed her eyes at the sky. When she was silent and still, she did not even need to use that camouflage trick of hers – her colouring perfectly matched that of the landscape and her well-worn tethirian leathers seemed to be merging into the background. "Soon we will need to find a proper shelter. Storms here can be violent."

The elf nodded. She had never seen the storm in the mountains, but she remembered the ones raging over the coast in spring months.

"Before we join the others, I need to speak to you."

Vaire could not help but tense, inwardly squaring her shoulders. She should had known that the healer would not take her on this little excursion without having something in mind... Hopefully, Jaheira was not going to press her about her nightmares – or worse, about that gradually emptying bottle of calming draught in her bag.

"The wizard is going to travel with us for the next few days, until we reach the town. Try to be careful with what you say when he is around."

_'...What?'_

"What do you mean by that?," she blinked and turned her head towards the druid, her eyebrows creasing in confusion. "We are clearly on the same side, so why -"

"He is a Greycloak," Jaheira interrupted her briskly. "He may investigate the same events as us, he may even share informations with us, but his first and foremost allegiance is to Evereska. This is the only side he is truly on. Try not to forget about that."

Vaire went silent for a moment. She had been convinced that as long as the mage was not allied with their enemies, the details of his loyalty priorities were not their concern. Surely his blade was more than accurate testimony of his character? She had taken this assumption for granted, really, but perhaps things were more complicated than that.

"The Greycloaks' devotion to their city is almost legendary," she nodded at length. "But... that does not explain why we should mind our tongues around him."

"Not necessarily _we_," the woman corrected her. "But _you_ certainly should, and Imoen too, by extension. He is an investigator, Vaire. He has been sent here to gather informations, to keep an eye open for anything or anyone unusual, and believe me, you're going to be mentioned in his reports."

_'Oh, please, not this again.'_

"Try not to mention your foster father's name, your home or anything that could make him too curious about your past," Jaheira continued calmly. "He already looks at you as if... Have you noticed?"

"Yes, elves tend to look at me like that sometimes," Vaire closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. She was not the only human-raised elf in the history of the world – she was fairly sure about that – but the druid often sounded like she _was_, and it was slowly getting onto her nerves.

"I do not plan to share my life story with someone we have only met, you know," she spoke casually. "Besides, I already had this whole 'not-your-usual-elf' conversation with him last evening. Before we finished, he seemed pretty much uninterested in the whole topic. He made no comments, he asked no questions... Barely spoke, in fact," she ended with a small, indifferent shrug. "Hardly an investigation of any kind."

The druid tutted impatiently at her dismissive tone.

"Don't mistake his silence for the lack of interest," to the elf's surprise, she lowered her voice despite the fact that there was no one who could overhear them here. "You must understand that Gorion's name is not entirely unknown in some elven cities. Given his reputation and connections...," she paused, for a moment looking as if she was hesitant to continue.

"Harpers are openly welcomed in Evereska and treated as allies by many powerful elves," she finished. "The information that a human and a respected Harper has adopted an elven child, and then kept her existence a secret from her own people, would raise many questions among _Tel'Quessir_."

Vaire winced.

"Evereskans are interested in the outside world even less than the other elves," she pointed out. "I doubt that they care if someone like me exists or not. And why are you talking about my father's decision as though he committed some kind of a crime by adopting me?"

"Because accordingly to some elves, such thing _is_ a crime," the druid said, her expression hardening. "A heavy one to that. Remind me to educate you on the topic of Eldreth Veluuthra one day."

_'Eldreth Veluuthra...'_

Vaire suddenly felt as though she had swallowed a handful of dust. She had heard these words already, she was sure, but... where? Had her father mentioned it to her? Had she read about it? There was something unpleasant behind this name, something that was making her shiver... like a blade pressed against her neck.

"Trust me," Jaheira continued. "You don't need Evereskans or any other elves investigating your father's deeds, dissecting your past and tampering with your life, should they see it fit. Your situation is already complicated enough. For your own safety... be careful around this mage," she pressed.

She was silent for a long moment.

"You are right," she heard her own voice.

Later, when they were marching through the barren valley, she could not help but think that someone had apparently given the mage the same kind of advice. He was _very_ careful with his words around them. In fact, he walked mostly in silence, not talking to anyone, not even looking at anyone, with his eyes glued to his feet whenever he was not scanning his surroundings.

* * *

He decided to try again. He made a few simple gestures, beginning from the most basic enchantments, but unsurprisingly, none of them came out right. The spells were fizzling one by one, he could feel the energy briefly clinging to his fingertips, then slipping from them like silken threads – again, and again, and _again _– only to disperse a moment later in swirls of golden mist.

"This is hopeless," he whispered to himself.

He gave up when his hands became painful from the strain. With a heavy sigh, he leaned his upper body against the sun-warmed rock and closed his eyes, for a few heartbeats letting himself to simply breath and absorb the comforting heat that was radiating from it.

He would not mind to slip into a quick _reverie_ here and there. The march had been more exhausting than he had expected and although it was barely past midday, he was already tired to the bone, potion or not. Thank the fate that they were not going to resume their journey anytime soon – the weather was already changing and the company agreed to stop here for now, where they had found a shelter in a small cave.

He was slightly amazed by the fact that so far, they had not been attacked. The Sword Coast was in the middle of the iron crisis. The mountains around the mines were most likely overrun with bandits and monsters – they were bound to stumble across someone or something here, probably sooner than later, and...

He lowered his head to look at his hands and a bitter shadow crossed his features. In his present state, he would probably fall in a duel with an old, sickened kobold.

_'Useless.'_

He could feel the weight of that word again, laying upon his mind like a piece of lead.

So far, his current... companions – because that was how he should probably call them – had not left him to fend for himself, but he had a feeling that it was only a matter of time. They might be kind enough to save his life, but they were under no obligation to keep him around, especially while struggling for their own survival.

How many potions would they be willing to spare before deciding that enough is enough? He was a stranger at their mercy, defenceless and in poor health. The worst kind of a liability.

Shivering slightly, he glanced at the sky. He could already see ominous clouds rolling over the mountain tops and moving towards the valley. Not a storm, thankfully, but gusts of wind were stronger and colder now, bringing the promise of heavy rain.

The mage reluctantly rose from his place. The prospect of entering the cave and spending some time inside was unappealing, really – such places were reminding him too much of his former prison – but it was still better than getting drenched. He could do little to make his current situation better, but maybe he could at least try not to get pneumonia...

He stopped dead in his tracks.

His ear twitched, catching a faint echo of footsteps.

He looked around. The cave and the camp were in front of him. The entire company was there, as he could clearly see – only the elven girl was walking a bit further, collecting fuel for the fire.

Those footsteps... It was not her. It _could not_ be her. That sound was coming from the opposite direction...

In Greycloaks, he had never served as a scout, but he had been trained to use his senses as one nonetheless. He closed his eyes and turned his head slightly to the side, listening intently. He was never very good at this, but it was a small blessing that the wind was in his favour, carrying the distant sounds straightly into his ear.

A quiet clink of metal plates. A faint, crunching sound of stones beneath heavy boots. A few pair of heavy boots, to be precise... A barely audible voice... And another one...

Not very close – for now, but getting closer.

He opened his eyes and shortened the distance between himself and the camp as fast as he could without resorting to running. The young elf sent him a perplexed look when he approached her, but he silenced her with a gesture, suggesting that they should not speak in the open. Then he caught her arm, urging her to follow him.

"Four people, at least two heavy armoured," he announced in a low voice when they entered the cave. "They are behind those rocks north of here. They are not in a hurry and they are not hiding their presence."

Before he could finish, the druid sprang to her feet. The warrior put his helmet on and moved to her side.

"H-how close?," he asked.

"I cannot tell," the mage said quietly. "But we should probably see them in a few moments."

"Amnian soldiers? A patrol, perhaps?," the elven girl suggested.

"This place is too far from the mines and main trails," the druid pressed her lips into thin line.

He barely noticed the pink-haired girl sneaking behind his back. She swiftly moved past him and perched on the rock near the entrance, hiding her face in her black hood. Somehow, she looked more curious than worried.

"Let's wait them out," she whispered. "They dunno we're here, right?"

"N-not for long," the warrior glanced at the sky. "They're probably s-seeking shelter, like us... T-they're going to check this cave."

They were treading an uncertain ground here. In similar situations, the wizard always preferred to assume two things: that the strangers are not friendly and that there is a spellcaster among them. The second option was always the most frightening, especially now – one well-aimed spell could change the cave interior into a deathly trap.

"Meeting them outside may be better than waiting here," the druid voiced his thoughts.

"Three of us, then," the elven girl pointed to herself, to the druid and the warrior. "We will determine with whom we are dealing and if they turn hostile, we will keep them busy."

He blinked, genuinely confused.

Why was this _lyth_, not even past her first century, giving orders here – and why her elder companions did not seem to mind? The druid even nodded approvingly. Was she not the one who was leading this group?

The elven girl reached to her satchel with spell components, but then paused and looked at him, her expression half-bemused, half-questioning. He realized that he was still holding her arm. He immediately let go, muttering an apologize.

"Immy, stick to the shadows and keep an eye for any spellcasters," she said to the pink-haired girl, sliding a few bone flakes under her bracer. "Do not show yourself unless absolutely necessary..."

His mind was racing. He was in debt to those people – they had saved his life and now, in face of possible danger, he was unable to weave even the simplest luck charm to aid them. Two somewhat experienced travellers and two children against four potentially dangerous opponents? He should do something. He _needed_ to do something.

"I will go with you," he blurted, almost without a second thought.

The healer raised a brow at him. The warrior only frowned. The young elf actually looked at him with something that resembled a concealed pity.

Oh, _perfect_.

"Please, stay here," she shook her head. Then she touched a piece of cured leather hanging from her belt and with a quick – too quick – movement of her hand, she weaved a mage armour around her.

He discreetly moved his fingers over the magical barrier, trying to feel it out. Just as he expected, the weave was irregular and inconsistent, strong enough to shield her from a stray arrow, at best, but nothing more. She cast carelessly, like every young spellcaster.

She turned around – and only then he realized that this was it. No building up layers of spells around herself. No strengthening the already existing shield. Nothing... because this laughable excuse for a mage armour counted as _nothing_, in fact.

But before he could say anything, before he could stop her, she left the cave. The druid was already outside, one hand on her quarterstaff, the other one tucked behind her belt, next to her sling. The warrior was standing beside her, alert and ready to reach for his weapon at the first sign of danger – although his eyes betrayed some nervousness.

_'Please, stay here.'_

How... courteous.

He was apparently meant to just enjoy the show. Why had she not handled him a pouch of roasted almonds as well? He was going to have a perfect view on the incoming slaughter from where he was standing right now.

Soon enough four silhouettes emerged from behind the nearby rocks. He placed his hand on the pommel of his sword, briefly closing his eyes. He could already tell that there was something wrong with these strangers – the moonblade was restless, sending a silent warning through their connection, a strand of chill brushing against his mind.

It was already raining. The first raindrops were falling onto the mage armour of the young elf, making it shimmer slightly in places where the fabric of the spell was weaker.

_'Useless.'_

"Hey, move outta their sight, mister wizard!," he heard the rogue's whisper. "They may see ya!"

Oh, of course. Yet another child – a human one, this time – was ordering him around.

He reached for one of the dark phials tucked in potion cases of his belt.

"_Nievana_," he muttered.

* * *

The small group was approaching them. The tallest woman on the front – the leader, probably – walked with a calm, unhurried confidence of an experienced fighter and judging by her looks, she was one. The plate mail she wore was marked with dents and scratches, and the same could be told about her oddly fashioned, horned helmet.

Vaire glanced briefly at the mace hanging heavily from the woman's belt. Then she took a deep breath and raised her hand – a simple gesture of greeting, commonly used among the travellers meeting on the road.

_'Lady Luck... Let them be only a stray group of mercenaries.'_

The tall woman responded with the same gesture – although Vaire noticed that the other stranger, the one with ashen braids sticking from under her helmet, briefly curled her lip and muttered something to the rest of the company. She was clearly young, her splint mail was not as battered as her leader's armour, but the spiked flail she carried on her shoulder in an almost nonchalant manner looked wicked.

_'...a stray group of mercenaries who are not looking for troubles,'_ Vaire added hastily in her thoughts.

She checked the transparent barrier of her mage armour, the warmth of the weave sliding softly against her fingertips. She was not proud to admit it, but heavy weapons such as hammers or maces scared her – even more so after she had come to see with her own eyes what they could do to a person's skull.

The strangers stopped in front of them, keeping the customary distance of twelve paces. Vaire allowed herself to relax a bit. Two heavy-armoured women seemed a bit menacing, but their companions in leather armours and cloaks looked only weary. They were surely more interested in finding a shelter than in attacking anyone...

"You there!," called the young warrior with ashen braids, wiping her face from the droplets of rain and then pointing at her. "You, knife-ears! Is your name Vaire, by any chance?"

_'...well, damn.'_

She sighed, suddenly tempted to say 'no' and to introduce herself as someone else instead. Someone with a ridiculously long, obsoletely sounding name. She doubted it would work, but she might at least try.

"Answer now!," the woman's pale eyes were burning with barely contained fury – and judging by the way her fingers were clutching the handle of her flail, she was already impatient to use it. "And your answer better be the truth, for your life depends upon it!"

She braced herself, raising her chin.

"And just who are _you_ to demand my name in such a way?," she answered with a question of her own. Such situations were still a bit new for her. She needed to sound firm, but not too confrontational... although it was pretty hard when someone was using threats and insults in place of greetings.

The ashen-haired woman snarled – but before she could reply, the taller warrior placed a hand on her shoulder and silenced her.

"_I_ am Lamalha, the leader of this company," she patted the younger woman's shoulder, ignoring her glare. Her voice bore a strange, heavy accent. "I apologize for my hot-headed friend. Zeela likes to step outside the line too much for her own good."

Vaire only frowned at that.

"Now, since you know our names," Lamalha commented, her tone hardening, "let us repeat our question. Is your name Vaire?"

"Yes. What of it?"

"Well met, then," the tall woman nodded and smiled, but the smile did not reach her eyes. "We've heard a few things about you and your friends while passing through Nashkel. Strange that we're meeting here, of all places. What brings you to these gods-forgotten mountains?"

"The iron crisis," Vaire replied cautiously. "You?"

"The same, in a way," now her tone became outwardly unpleasant. "We're here to find someone who wants to ruin our friends' business. We're also hunting a murderer. Now, when I'm thinking about it... They both happen to bear your name."

"I do not know what -"

"I warned you to tell the truth!," Zeela raised her voice, interrupting her. "Neira! That name should be known to you. The priestess in red colours. The one slain by your hand in Nashkel. Do you remember her?"

_'So they knew each other?'_

"I remember," the elf nodded calmly. "I also remember that _she_ was the one who attacked first. I was only defending myself and there are witnesses who can confirm that. Did you know that she served the Black Sun?"

"Aye," one of the cloaked women nodded. "We're also his servants. Any problem with that?"

_'Oh, you have to be kidding me...'_

"No, not really," she forced herself not to grimace. "As long as you have no problem with leaving us at peace."

"It's not that simple," Lamalha narrowed her eyes at her. "You see, Neira was Mane's sister," she nodded towards the cloaked woman who had spoke previously, "and she was a long-time friend to the rest of us. Now, you can't expect us to forgo a friendship, can you?"

She reached for the shield that was strapped to her back. Her younger companion almost lazily took her flail off of her shoulder and swung it in the air a few times, shaking the droplets of rain off of its spikes. Two women in brown cloaks backed off – but one of them was already reaching for her bow and the other one pulled a small blade out of her sleeve, clearly getting ready to strike.

"You have killed one of my girls, knife-ears," Lamalha continued. "You are to die for that now, you and those two...," she glanced at Khalid and Jaheira, and raised a brow. "...unless they are wise enough to stay away?"

Neither the druid, nor the warrior moved from their places – they also reached for their weapons.

"Wait!," Vaire stepped forward, raising both of her hands. "Wait and hear me out. We can settle this properly."

"_What_?," Zeela barked.

"Leave my friends out of it," the elf looked at her. "And yours as well. It is me you are after. Am I right? Let us fight one on one, then."

Zeela glanced at her companions, raising an eyebrow and they all burst into a short laugh.

"Do we look like fucking paladins to you?," Lamalha's smile became almost genuine for a heartbeat.

Then, without a warning, she muttered a few words and a pale golden glow appeared between her fingers.

The elf's eyes widened. Maybe not a paladin, but...

_'A priestess.'_

She reacted before she could think. She slipped one ivory flake from under her bracer and weaved a spell around it on one breath. The ball of ice hissed and shattered against Lamalha's hand – the blow came out much weaker than it should, but it was enough to make the golden glow fizzle and disappear. The priestess cried in pain, clutching her hand that was now covered with frost.

Suddenly, all hell broke loose.

Vaire lunged forward, but then something brushed against her shoulder and she backed off for a moment in surprise. A small gash appeared in her sleeve – someone sent a dagger in her direction, but the mage armour was strong enough to shield her from the worst of the damage.

An arrow whizzed somewhere near, but she had no time to think about it. Lamalha switched the shield into her wounded hand and reached for her mace, because Khalid was already in front of her.

Vaire sent a magic missile towards one of the cloaked women, then drew out her blade and ran towards Zeela. Strangely, the ashen-haired warrior was not even looking at her and... wait, was that a greenish mist seeping from between her fingers?

_'Damn, damn, damn!'_

Also a priestess – with a half-woven mind-control spell.

Then a familiar dagger flew from the direction of the cave and hit the priestess' bracer, disrupting her spell in the last moment. The mist vanished in a blink of an eye.

She let out a small, relieved breath.

_'I owe you one, Immy.'_

Taking up a battle stance, she felt another small blade grazing her right arm. This time it wounded her deep enough to draw blood. She checked on it briefly. Still nothing serious.

"Maneira, enough!," bellowed Zeela. "This one is mine!"

_'So, one on one, after all?'_

The priestess attacked, but the elven girl managed to quickly move aside, avoiding the blow. The woman was larger and clearly stronger than her, and blocking her flail with a sword was out of the question. She needed to focus on keeping out of her range for now.

It was positively terrifying – to see a huge, metal ball with spikes moving towards her head. She leaned to the side, barely dodging it, but before she straightened, it was already returning.

Again, dodged.

Again, too close.

"Fight!," the woman barked at her. "Fight, you pointy-eared coward!"

She was still maintaining the distance, observing, her heart pounding in her chest. _'Flails,'_ she thought, trying to remember everything she knew about them. They were good for crushing the skull of an unconscious person – or for throwing, if necessary – but it was hard to use them in a close combat. They were unpredictable and it was not easy to deliver an accurate blow with them.

So far, so true.

Seizing a chance, she stroke at her opponent's arm. She aimed for the small gap between the plates – but the point of her blade slid off onto the pauldron, leaving only a scratch. As if in a response, the spiked head of the flail flew past her shoulder, brushing against her mage armour and making it shimmer dangerously. It was bound to disperse soon.

"So you know how to bite, after all," the woman bared her teeth at her.

The elf almost flinched, thinking briefly that she could not remember anyone looking at her with such hatred – it was a new experience for her. Zeela's eyes were blazing like a white-hot steel, but there was also something bitter in her mad fury, something bitter and almost broken... something that resembled a grief.

_'Neira was important to her,'_ she thought and at the same moment, she slipped on the wet ground and staggered. She backed off, barely avoiding having her skull smashed to pieces. What happened to her sense of balance?

She stole a quick look at her left shoulder – her sleeve was soaked with blood. Such wound should not bleed so profusely.

Zeela attacked again, dealing fast, uncoordinated blows and aiming lower this time. She slipped again, fell to the ground and rolled to the side, saving her skin in the very last moment. Someone behind her gave out an anguished cry. _'Jaheira? What happened?'_

But she could not turn around to check on her friends now.

Blinking the raindrops away, she got to her feet as quickly as she could. _'Focus.' _The world began to spin in her head. The poison was quickly taking its toll on her – but her battle instinct was still there, somewhere within her, keeping her mind sharp and fully aware of what was happening around. Tracing her opponent's movements. Steering her body away from the danger. Assessing her chances and waiting, waiting, _waiting_...

Zeela raised her weapon, briefly exposing herself.

_'There.'_

The elf felt herself moving before she could think about the movement itself. She ducked and slashed widely across the priestess' side. Still hearing her surprised grunt, she spun in a half-circle to face her again, swung her sword upwards and changed the angle with a practised turn of wrist.

In the next moment, she dealt a clean strike into the woman's neck – with such a force that the point of the sword stopped in a spine, stuck between two vertebrae.

For a fraction of time, she could almost see it cutting the spinal cord, that fragile life thread protected by its own armour of bones.

She knew that her elven brain was supposed to create exceptionally vivid memories of her every experience – but in such moments, she was finding it unbearable. It was almost as if something in her was registering every detail. The weight of the weapon in her hand. The pain in her arm. The tension of her muscles.

And the blood, of course. Its colour – so vivid that it was making all the other colours pale in comparison. Its scent – so intense that she could almost taste it at the back of her tongue. There was always so much blood, no matter how clean she tried to -

_'Enough...!'_

She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath and fighting the nausea. Time sped up again. She drew her blade out, kicking the lifeless body backwards, and quickly turned away from it. Then she reached blindly for an antidote and uncorked it with her teeth.

She gagged when the oily fluid slid down her throat – but soon enough the potion settled down in her stomach, creating a warm, comforting sensation. Her wounded arm was still pulsing with pain, but the bleeding stopped.

_'It is over,'_ she sighed, lowering her head. It was not exactly a relief, that feeling that washed over her – it felt closer to exhaustion, but it was soothing nonetheless. _'It is over.'_

And indeed, the battle was over.

When she turned towards her friends, her sister was crouching near the body of Maneira, wiping one of her daggers into the woman's brown cloak. They exchanged their usual 'are you all right' looks, each giving the other a quick check up – the girl seemed unharmed, save for a small gash running across her cheek. There was an empty antidote bottle laying on the ground next to her.

Jaheira was a few paces away, kneeling at her husband's side – with her palms spread on his chest, she was muttering words of the healing spell. The warrior was trying to protest weakly, claiming to be well, but the blood trailing from his nose and from the corner of his mouth was telling a different story.

Vaire noticed that the front of his armour was practically shattered to pieces. He got a few blows to the chest – a nasty ones, no doubt – but he was alive and judging by the druid's determined frown, he was going to stay that way.

She let out a shuddering breath, approaching them. She did not want to think what would she do if -

No, she was not going to think about such things now. She glanced at the body of Lamalha that was laying nearby, facing the ground. Strangely, she found very little blood around it. She caught a glimpse of the wound on the side of her neck, but it looked... cauterized?

She turned her eyes to Xan who had apparently joined the battle at some point. The elven mage stood over the corpse, leaning heavily on his sword. His face was practically white and his whole frame seemed to be trembling from exhaustion... but for some reason, he was looking straightly at her, his gaze almost uncomfortably intense. What was that about? She suddenly felt as if she was a puzzle to be solved.

_'Don't mistake his silence for the lack of interest.'_

Wiping the raindrops from her face, she looked at his unsheated sword. The blade was silvery blue – a mithral, no doubt – and it was as beautiful and elegant as she had thought it to be. She spotted nine intricate runes placed below the hilt, but since their shapes were unfamiliar to her, she was not able to read them. The currents of magic radiating from the weapon were so strong now that she could almost feel them against her skin, but if anyone would ask her to describe this feeling, she would probably not know what to say.

With a look of pure fascination on her face, she observed as the moonblade was burning barely visible traces of the blood off of itself, gradually scorching them into dark crusts and finally, into cinders.

* * *

* _Sehanine Lateu_ – a proper elven name of Sehanine Moonbow

_* Alus'niemel_ – water of invisibility

* _Lyth_ – an elven child

* _Nievana_ – whatever


	4. Chapter 4: Aesana

**Author's note:** _Something shorter this time. Again, thank you to anyone who reads and leaves a review!_

_The title of this chapter, 'Aesana,' means 'a hunted one.'_

* * *

Chapter 4

**Aesana**

**.**

"So utterly reckless," the druid's annoyed muttering was clustering around their heads like a swarm of angry bees. "No magic. No armour. No shield to speak of. Not even a buckler...!"

The mage, wrapped in his cloak and seated near the small campfire, said nothing, trying to draw as little attention to himself as possible. There were few things in this world as dangerous as accidentally aggravating a short-tempered healer... who was in the middle of preparing a medicine for you, to that.

The druid poured some water into a cup, then added a few droplets of some potion into it – hopefully, it was only a regenerating tonic – and stirred the liquid so vigorously that it almost sloshed over the rim.

He eyed her uneasily, trying not to move too much and not to breathe too loudly. She was no alchemist, judging by her hands' movements, but she had a certain potential. She probably could bring a mixture to a simmer using only that scowl of hers...

"P-please, Jaheira," the warrior, also resting near the campfire, propped himself up on his elbow. He paused and winced, touching briefly his chest. "You really needn't be so -"

"So...? So _what_?," she snapped and turned towards him so abruptly that her half-braided hair whipped angrily at her shoulders. Her tethirian braid clasps flashed briefly in the firelight like a dozen of golden stings. "Haven't you seen him? He jumped in front of that priestess in naught but a robe on his back!"

"B-but w-with a sword," the man countered calmly. For some reason, he did not seem to be bothered by the druid's harsh behaviour – in fact, there was a warm spark of fondness flickering in his dark eyes whenever he was looking at her...

_'Ah.'_

A couple.

He should had guessed earlier.

"Bah!," the druid scoffed. "It was the invisibility potion that really saved him, and the element of surprise." She accusingly pointed a spatula at the warrior's bandaged chest. "Besides, don't you dare defending him. You were also reckless. You were supposed to replace this old armour of yours months ago!," somehow, her scowl deepened even more. "I hope that you don't plan to have this piece of junk repaired __again__, because I swear, if I see you carrying it to the armourer __one more time__, I will personally shred it to pieces, iron crisis or not!"

_'A long-time couple, then...'_

She almost thrust the cup into the mage's hands and not even waiting for his barely audible 'thank you,' she turned away from both men, gathering bandages, bottles and empty phials scattered around her bag. The cloud of her anger slowly receded from above their heads.

Xan hesitantly took a sip of the watery mixture. The taste made him grimace and shudder – _definitely_ a regenerating tonic, bitter like a wormwood.

"Don't take her annoyance too p-personally," the warrior whispered, leaning slightly towards him when the druid moved further into the cave. "She is grateful to you for s-saving my skin... no less than I am."

The wizard only nodded, not exactly knowing what to say. He had not joined the battle out of heroism, after all. He had simply dreaded the thought of looking the rest of the company in the eyes after watching one of them being slaughtered not even ten paces away from him. Truth to be told, he had not reacted until the very last moment, when the barely alive warrior had fallen to the ground – and even then he had serious doubts about his decision.

But it was probably neither the place, nor time to say such things aloud.

"I've found something odd!," the pink-haired girl called from the corner of the cave. Surrounded by small piles of various items, from scrolls to weapons, with a magical light seeping from her pendant, she was inspecting and segregating the loot she had collected from the corpses.

"What is it?," the healer cast a sharp look in her direction.

"Methinks 'tis some kind of a holy symbol or...," the girl frowned, trying to get a better look at a square plaque framed with gold. "Ah, hells, scratch that. Make that an unholy symbol," she wrinkled her nose. "Sheesh, evil deities are surely blatant with their emblems. Skulls look so cheap, dont'cha thin- Hey!"

The druid snatched the plaque from her.

"By the Silvanus, never touch such things with your bare hands!," she scolded the girl and began to examine the symbol herself, holding it through a piece of cloth. "Black Sun," she muttered. "The same kind we've found near Mulahey. They might have been working together, then."

Xan perked up his ears.

He had heard rumours about Zhentarim agents being responsible for the events occurring in the region. He had not believed them at first – the Zhentarim were widely feared and always easy to blame – although... Cyric had replaced their former patron deity a few years ago, changing Zhentil Keep into a known bastion of his followers. Could the rumours be true, then? That would be a really curious coincidence: a group of cyricist involved in the iron crisis, all of them using identically crafted holy symbols...

"Can you tell me something more about this priestess you have met in Nashkel?," he asked the warrior, tearing his eyes from the fire.

"Neira," the man nodded, his brows coming together. "We've met her in the inn on t-the evening we arrived. We've exchanged our n-names, shared the table... She c-claimed to be a mercenary left behind by her friends b-because of her still healing wound, or s-something. She even offered t-to accompany us to the mines, but then, she... well, she attacked.

"She attacked you in the inn?," he did not even bother to hide the incredulous tone in his voice. Surely not even the cyricist would be mad enough to draw out a weapon in such a place – in the town full of soldiers, no less.

"N-no, not exactly," the warrior winced and rubbed his chest again, but this time not because of pain.

He was hesitant to give a straight answer, more likely.

_'Interesting...'_

He barely had time to think about it, though, because in the very next moment the elven girl returned to the camp, shivering and soaked to the bone. Like the rest of the company, she had taken advantage of the still-falling rain to perform her after-battle ablutions – but judging by the amount of time she had spent outside, she either immensely enjoyed being wet and cold, or she had been trying to wash her clothes without taking them off.

"What a wretched weather," she commented. He almost flinched, seeing her vigorously wringing out her hair, like it was some... some kind of a floor rag. Honestly, only an elf brought up away from her kin could treat her hair in such a manner...

She dried herself – to some degree, at least, with an atrociously cast drying cantrip – and, still leaving small puddles in her wake, came closer to the fire. She took the place near the warrior and swung one of the spare blankets around her shoulders, promptly compressing herself into a bundle topped with a mass of silvery-white waves.

"Xan just asked about N-neira," the warrior looked at her with an unspoken question in his eyes.

She visibly tensed at the sound of this name. The wizard could not help but feel a pang of guilt – the quiet, relaxed contentment she had been radiating only a moment ago was instantly gone.

"Of course," she nodded, looking at him across the fire, although her tone betrayed that she did not wish to return to this particular memory. "What exactly do you want to know?"

* * *

The evening was drawing late. The whole day of walking, fighting and running away from bandits, ended with visiting the town's major and a long talk about local problems, had left her positively drained – but her mind was still restless. Her thoughts were wandering to and fro, moving between the past and the present like some kind of a twisted river.

Her father's death... Her mother's fate... The bounty hunters... The iron crisis... The bandits on the roads... The creatures in the mines...

_'Too many questions and not enough answers.'_

The tiny room was quiet, not counting the steady sound of her sister's breathing. Vaire buried her head in the pillow, sorely tempted to use a dose of a calming draught – even though she knew that she should be using it sparsely. The bottle was already not as full as it should be.

The temple's bell of hours rang twelve times. Then one. The river was still flowing, eddying around every obstacle, refusing to slow down. She wondered briefly if there was some kind of a freezing spell for such situations. She could certainly use one right now...

The second hour found her fully clothed, with her sword girded to her side. She left the room and stepped onto the corridor, following the path created on the floor by the waning moon, its light painting silvery squares on the worn out wood below the row of windows. She moved quietly, patterns of light and darkness sliding alternately over her silhouette.

The air outside, cool and refreshing from the mountain breeze, was filled to the brim with everything that was spring and life. Inhaling scents of young grass, budding leaves and dozens of flowers, she crossed the meadow that was stretching between the town's bridge and the nearby pastures, and stopped near the river bank.

The spot between two low trees seemed safe enough. There was no one around – and she should not be visible here, hidden behind the shrubbery, sitting among the shadows dotted with moonlight.

_'Let's give it a try...'_

She seated herself on the grass. Gazing upon the shimmering surface of the river, she slowly opened her senses to the soothing, constant murmur of the current in hope that it would overflow the one that was meandering inside her mind.

She never cared much for meditations of any kind – her only achievement in this field was getting either restless or sleepy at some point – but since she was already restless and it was her third sleepless night in a row...

Some time passed by. Listening to the sounds of flowing water was pleasant, but just as she had expected, her mind grew weary of them soon, wandering away in search of distraction.

Was that a blackbird singing in the distance...?

_'Focus,' _she berated herself, frowning slightly. She was supposed to focus on the river. The sound of the current. The moonlight on the surface. The shadows in the depth... It was ridiculous, really. She was an elf, she should be natural at such things.

But twenty deep breaths later, she was not feeling much different, not counting the fact that her legs had fallen asleep. Well... While it was certainly not the state of mystical harmony with the nature, it was still something – maybe the rest of her body and her mind would simply follow the example at some point -

_...a rustle..._

It was barely audible, but enough to shatter whatever fragile state of half-relaxation she had managed to reach. Her brain immediately switched to the mode of a startled animal. Her ear twitched, her heart sped up and her eyes darted to the side, following the sound, trying to locate a potential predator.

Someone was walking through the meadow, also heading towards the river. Had she been seen while leaving the inn? The corridor and the hall downstairs had been empty – she was sure of that.

Her eyes narrowed, spotting a halfway familiar, tall silhouette. Was that not this mercenary they had met in the inn today? _'Neira,' _she recalled, quietly getting to her feet and hiding further behind the tree. What was she doing here at night, and... just why was she fully armoured?

The woman was not moving in a stealthy manner – it was probably impossible for her, anyway, since she was wearing a splint mail and an expensive-looking helmet ornated with scarlet crest – but she was walking almost unnaturally silently.

Suddenly, the elf realized that the only sound she could hear was the rustle of grass. No clatter of armour. No metal clanking. Nothing of that sort. Some kind of a spell, perhaps?

_'Strange...'_

She froze in the shadows, with her cheek pressed to the rough bark, unsure what to do. Should she reveal her presence? Should she stay quiet? Back in the inn, the woman had been friendly enough, even to the point of offering them her assistance, so maybe -

Neira stopped a few paces away from her, her long arms folded over her armoured chest. Vaire tried not to even blink, but she could already tell that the woman was looking straightly at her – as if knowing from the very beginning where she was hiding.

A sudden surge of paralysing fear seized her.

It lasted no longer than a fraction of a heartbeat – but for this brief moment, she felt as if some unknown force snatched her back in time, to the night when her father had been killed. Was it some kind of a mind magic? Was it something of her own mind's doing? She could not tell.

It looked all the same – the night, the tree, the shadows... The armoured woman searching for her, passing merely a few paces away from her hiding spot, silent like a wraith... The droplets of rain sliding heavily towards the end of her sword...

_'No. There is no rain. There is no rain now.'_

She blinked the memory away, putting herself together and returning to reality – a bit too late, though.

Neira thrust her hand forward and muttered a spell. The elf saw a golden mist coiling between the woman's fingers and speeding forward like a striking snake...

* * *

"It was impossible to reason with her," she shook her head. "She attacked me first. I was lucky that this spell of hers slid off of me... I tried to talk her out of this, but to no effect."

He nodded in understanding. It was no secret that servants of the Black Sun had a streak of insanity in them, but was it only madness that prompted the priestess to stalk and attack an innocent person in the middle of the night?

A valid question... although it was probably better to put it aside until later.

From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the druid. She seemed to be occupied with examining the scrolls, exchanging an occasional word with the pink-haired girl – but he could tell that she was listening to their conversation and watching them like a hawk.

Apparently, this story had some parts that he was not supposed to hear.

_'Again, interesting.'_

"How did you know that this mercenary was a cyricist?," he asked instead. "I imagine that she did not mention it while introducing herself."

"That 'cyricist' part is a bit complicated," the young elf shifted slightly. "Soldiers who were patrolling the nearby bridge saw us at some point and decided to intervene. They arrived too late to do anything more than search the corpse, though. They have discovered the Black Sun pendant on Neira's neck and proclaimed her a cyricist... but two days later, the priest from the local church of Helm informed us in private that the symbol was, in fact, false."

"A false symbol of the god of falsehood," Xan commented quietly. A creative approach, in a way. "She was a maskarran, was she not?"

The elven girl blinked, a shadow of suspicion crossing her face.

"How do you know that?"

He let out a slightly exasperated sigh. Had no one taught her to use her brains?

"She needed a support of a strong patron deity to fool the cyricists, and it usually needs a trickster to deceive a trickster," he explained flatly. "Leira, the former goddess of deception, perished a decade ago, along with a few other powers that favoured murder and intrigue. Since it is highly doubtful that a human would serve a god of a foreign pantheon, that leaves the maskarran option as the most likely one."

He heard the pink-haired girl chuckling quietly at the back of the cave.

"Damn, he's good," she whispered to the druid.

Trust a human to speak a curse and a praise in the same breath... Was she being sarcastic? Not likely, it sounded more like a compliment, albeit crude. Was the ability to think logically such a rarity in this part of the world that it automatically deserved to be complimented, then?

The young elf only raised an eyebrow at him, clearly trying not to look _too_ impressed.

"Why not a sharran?," she asked. "Or a talontar? Or a loviatan, for that matter?"

Oh. So she _could_ use her brains, after all – at least to some degree.

"A talontar would try to poison you during your stay in the inn instead of confronting you like that. A loviatan would try to get to know you better before attacking, and as for sharrans, they often cooperate with cyricists. Being a sharran, the priestess would have no reason to hide her true allegiance from her companions," he finished impassively. "Besides, maskarrans are rather known for infiltrating the cyricists' ranks nowadays."

She shook her head, suppressing a smile.

"Seems that you need only a few words to figure out the whole story. Neira was a maskarran, yes. She even addressed her god at some point during our encounter," she paused for a moment. "If her party was indeed working with Mulahey, it was most likely her who has been his spy in the town."

"She m-might have even volunteered to stay," the warrior added, tossing a dry branch into the fire. "She could pass m-messages and gather informations for both of her superiors that way, and s-sabotage the mayor's efforts. Had we accepted her offer of help, she w-would probably lead us straightly into the trap."

Xan only nodded absently. Again, he had a feeling that some part of the elf's story had been left untold. A cyricist would not hesitate to spill the blood of a barely met person – and risk to ruin her cover – but a maskarran would not be so reckless. Not unless she had been given a _very_ good reason.

And that reason was apparently sitting in front of him now.

The girl's silvery green eyes flashed briefly in the firelight like two chrysolites. She might be giving him this open, sincere, trustworthy gaze – the one that people probably tended to sell their thoughts to without naming a price – but as an enchanter, he knew better. She did not seem to be deliberately deceitful, no... but even the most inviting, crystal clear waters sometimes concealed dangerous depths.

_'Who are you?'_

"May I ask...," he said aloud, schooling his expression into a slightly concerned one. It was one of these moments when he needed to shed his cloak of aloofness – if only a bit – in order to get the informations he wanted. "Since that priestess pretended to be helpful before, do you have any idea why _exactly_ she exposed herself that night by attacking you? Maybe you have seen or heard something you were not supposed to? Such things can be important."

Her eyes darted to the side.

"I...," she glanced towards the druid, hesitating briefly. Then she looked back at him – ignoring the healer's wordless warning she had been most likely given. "I should probably tell you. You are going to travel with us to the town and it would be wrong to withdraw such an information from you," she frowned and a strange kind of determination solidified in her gaze. "You... You may not want to be seen in my company after hearing this, though."

_'Oh, no.'_

He could already tell that this was going to be bad – he should prepare for the worst, then. Knowing his luck, he was probably about to hear that this seemingly kind-hearted elven girl was in fact a convicted murderer, leaving heaps of corpses in every town she went through, or at least some other kind of criminal with a bounty on her head...

She took a deep breath.

"There is a bounty on my head."

_'...'_

"_Le'nyrrin bren_," he muttered flatly.

Seldarine, sometimes he _hated_ being right.

* * *

Vaire staggered, feeling as though she had been hit by a huge, heavy pillow. _'Thank the gods.'_ The spell did not take hold, but its sheer force left her breathless for a short moment. Shaking the confusion out of her head, she reached for her blade and jumped out from between the shrubs, trying to get closer to the mercenary.

She could not let her cast anything else. This time she had been lucky, but the next spell might not slid off of her do easily. The magic the woman had used felt unfamiliar and incredibly unpleasant – it was of divine origin, that much was already clear, but whatever higher power was its source, it probably resided far from the domain of light.

"What are you doing?," the elf hissed, taking a defensive posture. Well, it was _still_ possible that the mercenary had taken her for someone else and attacked out of sheer cautiousness – humans had rather poor low-light vision, after all. "Don't you recognize me? We have met in the inn today."

"Aye, we have," Neira's face twisted in a smile that seemed strangely unfitting for her regular, almost angelic features. She slowly looked the elf up and down, reaching for her weapon. "The white-haired elfling, first strolling into the inn, bold as day, then wandering here in the middle of the night," she tsked. "So careless. I must say that I expected a hunt and a chase from the description, but... just fancy my luck. This will be even easier than slaying you in your bed."

_'Another bounty hunter?'_

Vaire mentally hugged her insomnia, suddenly _very_ grateful for not being able to sleep this night.

"W-what? Why are you doing this?," she raised her voice, pretending to be clueless and temporizing. The garrison was in the other part of the town, but soldiers regularly patrolled the streets and guarded the bridge. The fires of the post were not visible from here, but someone might still hear her...

"There's a lovely little sum on your white head," Neira shrugged. "Does this satisfy your curiosity? No? I thought it wouldn't. No matter."

"Listen... It is all about money for you, right?," Vaire circled her slowly, still keeping her at the sword's length, but a the same time trying to steer them both closer the bridge. To her relief, it seemed to be working. The woman followed her, moving soundlessly. "It is nothing personal, it is all about gold. Surely we can make a deal, then?"

"No," she spat. "Others might yield to such an offer, but I would say that they lack focus. Now... It may be a touch unladylike, but I'm going to slit your throat, I am," she almost purred, her smile flashing in the moonlight like a cruel crescent.

The elf could not help but send her a dubious look.

"Slit my throat... with this?," she glanced at her opponent's weapon. Neira carried a lightweight club that looked more like a metal rod with a flanged head – but surely it was too blunt to -

With an audible 'snap', the woman pulled out a small blade from her weapon's shaft.

"With _this_," she sneered. "And may the Lord of Shadows guide you swiftly to your death!"

* * *

_'A bounty on her head?'_

Acknowledging some other elf as an outlaw – and, in some extremely rare cases, as a potential opponent in consequence – was never easy for him, but in this particular case, he felt not only unpleasantly surprised, but also ('_...utterly, terribly..._') more than a tad disappointed.

He had met more than a few not-exactly-righteous people in his life. He knew how misleading the first impression could be, and yet... _her_? She had helped to save him... She had made him a compress... ('_...smiled at me..._')

So he owed his life – at least to some extent – to a wanted criminal?

Perfect. Just... perfect.

Some of these thoughts must had leaked into his expression because the young elf groaned silently and hid her face in her palms.

"I am sorry. I sometimes forget how it sounds," she sighed, her fingers sliding through her hair in a weary gesture, almost as if she wanted to wash his unvoiced suspicions off of herself. "Please, do not look at me like that. I am not an outlaw or anyone of that sort."

"N-none of us is," the warrior added, looking at him. "You m-may ask the mayor when we get to the town. You'll find out t-that we are on pretty good terms with local authorities."

"The thing is...," the girl briefly closed her eyes. "Someone apparently wants to kill me, rather badly to that. Since the last month, I am hunted by various thugs, mercenaries and assassins who carry around bounty notices with my description. Neira... She also had such a notice."

Xan managed to blink.

"Oh."

Honestly, that was the only comment he could think of right now, although some of his earlier disappointment vanished. The situation was still bad – or even utterly hopeless – but apparently, not in the way he had previously thought.

"Can you clarify this... 'hunted' part? Who wants your death, and why?," he asked slowly.

"Unfortunately, I do not know," she shook her head. "I should probably start from the beginning... Shortly before the last equinox, I was attacked by two men. I mistook them for some random thugs at first, but it turned out that they were bounty hunters. One of them had a notice that said that a reward has been appointed on my head... but for what reason, by whom, when – to this day, I have no idea."

He nodded, urging her to continue.

"My foster father suspected that sooner or later, more assassins might seek me out. He decided that we must leave our home and find some kind of a hideout," she said, staring into the fire. "However... on the very first night of our travel, we have been ambushed by a group of armed people. Father managed to hid my presence, using his magic, but he did not...," her voice wavered. "He did not survive himself."

She looked away from the flames, blinking.

"I have run into three more bounty hunters since then," she continued. "I was attacked at Friendly Arm's Inn by a wizard who also had a bounty notice – two hundred gold coins. Later, I met a dwarven mercenary with an almost identical message – three hundred and fifty. Neira has been the last so far – six hundred and eighty...," she shrugged, forcing a bitter smile. "The prize goes up pretty quickly."

"Not quickly enough," the pink-haired girl snorted softly. "I dunno what they're thinkin'. Like, really? Less than seven hundred for yer head?"

"Stop talking nonsense, child," the druid hissed.

"No, no, Imoen is right," the elven girl laughed quietly, but it was a humourless laugh. "Not even a thousand? I should probably feel insulted."

She looked at him again, her eyes solemn.

"As I said, you should consider whether you want to be seen in the town anywhere near me," she finished quietly. "I cannot say how many more bounty hunters will appear on my path. I... I cannot vouch for the safety of anyone who..."

"Of course," he interrupted her gently when she began to sound a bit too flustered. "I appreciate you telling me this. I also understand that this is not something you share freely. You can count on my discretion in this matter," he added, since she would probably ask that of him anyway.

She thanked him, visibly relieved.

The druid's hard gaze was still on him. He sighed silently. She could as well approach him and press the tip of her quarterstaff to the side of his head... She was protective towards her younger companion, he could understand that, but surely she was not thinking that he would be tempted to murder anyone for gold?

_'A bounty on her head...'_

She had been very careful not to tell him too many details, but it mattered not for now. He already knew enough to tell that she was even more doomed soul than he had previously thought her to be. A young, human-raised elf, orphaned twice during her short life, adventuring in such a small company – and hunted by someone powerful enough to send out bounty notices around the region...

It had not escaped his attention that her troubles had begun shortly after the iron crisis took its toll on these lands. The priestess that had attacked her in the town was undoubtedly involved in the Mulahey's conspiracy, just like those cyricists they had met today. Maybe the elven girl's story was connected in some way to the local problems. Maybe it would be prudent to find out who was trying to kill her and for what reason.

Besides, as a moonblade wielder, he was probably obliged to provide at least a small measure of help for her – preferably one that did not involve staying in this group for too long. He should not be seen with them. He had no desire to end up as the assassins' victim, in case they would decide to kill yet another elf in sight... But leaving her without _any_ help would go against his code. _N'tel'quess _or not, she was still of elven blood. No innocent elf deserved to be hunted like an animal across the whole land.

He sighed again – it would seem that he acquired _yet another_ case to think about... one that was significantly increasing his chance of dying a cold and ruthless death before the end of the tenday. How wonderful.

_'Corellon, why me?'_

The universe clearly hated him.

* * *

The rain had ended a few hours ago, but since resuming their journey shortly before the sunset would be pointless, they had decided to stay in this place until the morning. The cave provided a fine shelter, and besides, the ability to make a fire without the risk of being immediately seen was too precious to simply cast it aside. They had finally been able to eat their first warm meal since leaving the town – or, in the wizard's case, since the last month.

Vaire began to suspect that he was a natural loner. Whenever they had been discussing the iron crisis, talking about the mineral poison they had found in the mines or about the letters from the Mulahey's den, he had been listening attentively, occasionally asking questions and sharing his thoughts – but apart from that, he was perfectly content to remain detached and silent as a grave.

_'Speaking of graves...'_

She had volunteered to take the first watch, as usually, but now, when she was sitting a few paces away from the cave, alone in the darkness, she could not help but feel slightly nervous. The cyricists' bodies had been taken care of – they had been placed in a narrow opening under the rock, sprinkled with wyrmsage to prevent them from raising as undead and sealed underground with the help of the druid's spell – an yet, Vaire was uneasy.

The rain had been long enough to wash away traces of the battle, but somehow, she could still tell in which places the blood had soaked the ground. The nearest one was only in front of her... She blinked and turned her eyes away, silently cursing this newfound oversensitivity.

_'Get a grip on yourself.'_ She had no time for being sensitive about such things... especially if she wanted to stay sane.

A few moments later – to her slight surprise – she was joined in her watch by Imoen. The pink-haired rogue plopped onto the flat rock next to her and covered herself with her cloak, clearly preparing to stay for a while.

"Not going to sleep yet?"

"Nah. I'll sit with ya for some time. I feel quite smoked from sittin' by the fire for so long," the girl declared. "Ya wouldn't believe how many useless trinkets these lil' amazons carried 'round. I'm def'nitely keepin' these poisoned throwin' thingies, thou'...," she paused and frowned. "Ya sure ya don't wanna pick somethin' for yerself? Ye've taken only papers."

The elf shook her head.

"I am content enough," she showed the rogue a worn-out piece of parchment. "Look at this one, for example. Instructions from Mulahey. Lamalha and her company were apparently supposed to keep intruders away from this part of the valley, in case of someone getting too close to the kobolds' tunnels and to the Mulahey's den."

"Mission failed, ha-ha," Imoen grinned, barely glancing at the message.

Vaire suppressed the urge to roll her eyes, but the corner of her lips curved upwards.

"By the way," the pink-haired girl shifted closer to her and lowered her voice to a whisper. "Whatchu think 'bout this gloomy guy? We've yet ta see him castin', but I can already tell that he handles that moonsword of his pretty well. I mean, he nearly tripped over his own feet while steppin' inta battle," she admitted. "An' almost fainted afterwards, but hey, he still saved the uncle, an' t'was totally awesome..."

Vaire narrowed her eyes at her.

"And...?"

"Can we keep him?"

Vaire huffed a quiet laugh.

"Immy, he is not a pet," she shook her head. "Besides, after what he has been through, he is in no shape to travel. Just look at him. Jaheira says that after we get to the town, he should spend some time in the temple to fully recover."

She looked at the parchment once more, fiddling with its corner.

"He may even decide to return home afterwards," she added quietly. "The mines will be clear soon enough, the ore caravans will be sent to his city once more... His job here is done. Not to mention that after what he heard today, I doubt that he will be interested in joining us," she finished, grimacing slightly.

Imoen raised an eyebrow.

"What, d'ya think ye've scared him with this talk 'bout bounty hunters?"

"It is hard for an investigator to work along someone who draws unwanted attention," Vaire shrugged. "Don't get me wrong. I also think that it would be great to have someone like him with us, but we will most likely part our ways soon."

"Dang it, an' here I was thinkin' that he'll tag along. He could help us. He's smart," Imoen nodded sagely. "Althou' he really needs a hand with fixin' this bag of holdin'. He's been tryin' the whole afternoon an' got nowhere. I even wanted ta help him, but he refused."

"What is wrong with his bag, anyway?"

"Mulahey tried to force it open an' screwed up the wards, the amateur," the rogue smirked, flexing her fingers. "Actually, I'm thinkin' bout stealin' this bag for a moment. I'd have a chance ta practise an' maybe even manage ta open a pocket or two. I've never got me hands on a real elvish bag of holdin' before," she sighed wistfully. "Wonder if they sell them 'round somewhere..."

"Don't do this," Vaire sent her a slightly worried look. "He would not appreciate it."

"What? He obviously needs his stuff, so it'd be, like... a good deed an' all. Why're ya givin' me that look?," Imoen winced. "Sheesh, is he some kind of elvish paladin or somethin'?"

"Not necessarily, but he is probably one of these... you know, law-abiding people." Vaire had no idea how restrictive a moonblade wielder's code was, but she did not want to risk a mishap. "Greycloaks are said to have low tolerance for thieves and stealing in general."

"An' what 'bout borrowin', only, without him knowin' 'bout it?"

"Immy, I am serious. No stealing from Xan."

A moment of silence.

"Too late, kinda."

Vaire's jaw dropped when the rogue calmly pulled a beautifully crafted, dark grey leather bag from under her coat.

"You... You kleptomaniac!," the elf sent her a horrified look, her voice slightly panicked. Suddenly, all her previous thoughts about corpses buried nearby and about traces of blood on the ground vanished. She had a more tangible problem at hand now. "What have you done? After he finds out, you can be sure that he will not want to travel with us even to the nearest rock!"

"Are ya kiddin' me? He won't find out, he's sleepin' soundly after some kind of a tea the auntie gave him," Imoen announced with a smile, pulling out of her pocked a handful of strangely looking tools she normally used to disarm magical traps. She did not even tried to look apologetic. "It shouldn't take long, anyway. If I won't be able ta open somethin', I'll just leave it as it is. I'm not even gonna take anythin', I swear."

"For the gods' sake, we have just managed to convince him that we are _not_ criminals! And now you are _stealing his bag_! And... and why are you even dragging _me_ into this?," Vaire whispered frantically.

"Um... Actually, I needed someone ta hold me glowin' pendant at the right level while I'm workin'. An' a quiet place away from the aunt ta play - I mean, ta take a closer look at this fabulous piece of bag an' its magical wards," she corrected herself, her smile becoming slightly roguish. "But hey, ya won't rat me out, will ya? Ya know me. 'Tis not only 'bout fun. Ya know that I really wanna help."

"You -"

"A good deed, sis!"

Vaire groaned silently, clutching at her hair.

"You are impossible," she finished with a sigh.

"Yep, an' totally proud of it."

* * *

* _Le'nyrrin bren_ – I don't believe this

* * *

**Author's note:** _Neira from the game was a priestess of Mask - the Lord of Shadows. The idea of making her a maskarran spy disguised as a cyricist is something I made up, playing a bit with an official D&D canon. During the Time of Troubles, Mask took the form of a sword called Godsbane - the same with which Bhaal and a few other deities were killed later. When Cyric - after his god-killing spree - discovered the true nature of the blade, he broke it and in consequence, absorbed a large part of the Mask's powers, temporarily killing him. Unsurprisingly, Mask was not happy about it and hated Cyric from then on, at the same time trying to recover what he had lost. I imagine that using his priests as spies might be just his style._

_The idea of connecting Neira with Little Amazons sprouted out of the similarities between names (Neira - Maneira) and... well, between their attitudes._

_Fun fact: accordingly to the game's timeline, Cyric is a rather young deity when the Bhaalspawn crisis ensues - he had ascended less than a decade earlier. Somehow, he managed to kill a few other gods and gathered many devoted followers in a rather short (at least, for a god) time. Path to divinity - you're doing it... OK, maybe not exactly right, but damn effectively. Way to go, Cyric.  
_


	5. Chapter 5: Lesherith

**Author's note:**

_Again, thank you for reading and the reviews!_

_The title of this chapter, 'Lesherith,' means 'young thief'._

* * *

Chapter 5

**Lesherith**

.

It was an odd morning.

Thanks to the healer's herbs, he experienced only a brief sleep inertia after waking up, without any symptoms of that heavy, sleep-induced fatigue he dreaded so much. The day greeted him with the sound of crackling fire and the most pleasant sensation of being warm and... ah, comfortable? (_'...definitely odd...'_) To his surprise, someone had covered him with a thick woollen blanket at some point during the night, even though he had not asked for it – after all, his elven cloak (_'...should be...'_) was enough to protect him from the worst of the cold.

Then his eyes were met with a surreal, but at the same time intriguing view.

A teapot.

He blinked. Had someone's transmutation spell gone wrong?

An actual, genuine teapot. A simple one, covered in green glaze – but otherwise well kept and even somewhat shiny, standing out against the dull background. A lonely piece of tableware without a table present, looking completely out of place here, in the cave, among the rocks and camp utensils. And it was not empty. He caught the subtle scent of infusion wafting from it – a wild rose, he concluded.

When the elven girl politely offered him a cup, he almost forgot not to show too much enthusiasm while accepting. His mood was normally so low that to pick it up, one would probably need a fishing rod, a lot of patience and a divine intervention... but even though he would never admit it to anyone, some lures tended to work better than the others. The flower tea was one of them. The one the girl had prepared was simple – dried petals steeped in hot water – but it was enough to make him sigh in almost-contentment after taking the first sip. He closed his eyes for a moment.

_'Seldarine, thank you. Something that is not a cold water or a medicine...'_

"_Suor lor nehel_," he muttered barely audibly. Maybe she would understand, or maybe not, but... whatever.

He allowed himself to bask in a rare state of warmth-and-tea-induced relaxation for a while. It was probably some kind of a farewell gift from his life, he decided – the last pleasant experience the Fates were throwing his way before steering him towards the bitter end. The last time he had been drinking flower tea was... Over two months ago, probably. On the very morning he had left his home, setting off for this hopeless quest.

"A teapot," the druid scoffed, helping – or maybe rather forcing – the warrior to put on a heavy breastplate, probably a part of a spare armour set. "You need to finally learn to give up such silly, self-indulging habits, Vaire. The life on the road is full of hardships, and the sooner you get used to it, the better for you. Teapots and flower teas do not belong to the camp life."

"Perhaps," the young elf shrugged. She apparently knew better than to argue with a perfectly reasonable remark – even among his people, not exactly known of their austere lifestyle, brewing a tea in a teapot in the middle of wilderness would be considered a bit extravagant – but it was clear that she disagreed.

Xan studied her face for a moment. A slight, resolute tilt of chin. A small smile, seemingly polite, but at the same time full of youthful defiance... He could not help but wonder if she was going to live long enough to grow out of it naturally, or if she was going to perish earlier, possibly _because_ of it.

He glanced into his already half-empty cup and let out another sigh, this time slightly wistful. Extravagant or not, he needed to admit that it was still a pretty good tea. Nowhere nearly as good as elven flower blends, of course, but he did not mind – even though the flavour of roses was tinged with smoky bitterness, an unavoidable side-effect of boiling water over a campfire.

He looked at her again. She placed now empty teapot in front of her and began to clean it in quiet concentration. There was something... almost heartbreakingly sweet about the way she was handling it – with such a gentle care that one might think that it was a fragile, living creature she was dealing with. Not merely a brewing vessel, then, but also a thing of sentimental value... _'A token of comfort,'_ he mused. And maybe even of home, if the softness in her gaze could be any indication. _'How childlike of her.'_

But then he remembered the ease with which she was wielding the sword, and he inwardly shook his head. She might be young and inexperienced in the ways of world, but she clearly knew how to fight – she was probably not only talented, but also well-trained. He had observed her yesterday and... Seldarine, had he not seen her dealing that wicked strike to the priestess' neck, he would probably not believe it was her doing.

Suddenly, an odd suspicion crossed his mind.

His eyes froze on the edge of his cup for a moment.

_'No,'_ he shook the thought out of his head._ 'What an absurd.'_

Frowning, he drank the rest of his tea with a strange kind of determination._ 'No.'_ His paranoid mind was sometimes leading him astray, searching for patterns and connections where there were none, and that was probably one of such moments. His existence was miserable and full of misfortunes, but surely not even him would have _that_ perverse, twisted kind of luck – to cross his path with the only known elven -

_'No,' _he thought firmly, mentally slamming the door shut behind the very idea.

Just...

No.

* * *

The rest of the morning was even more odd.

Soon the druid and her partner left for a scouting trip, suspecting that the recent heavy rains might had caused a flash flood onset in the valley – probably a valid concern, considering the local landscape. For now, though, the rest of the company was bound to wait for their return: the young elf went outside and began to write furiously in her journal, the pink-haired girl made herself busy with rearranging her equipment.

Xan decided to use this time for making yet another attempt at getting his bag open. He _really _needed to get an access to his own potions, and soon. He was painfully aware of the fact that he had not enough gold to repay the druid for all the medicines he had been given so far, not to mention the spells... He reached for the bag and waved his hand over it, trying to feel out its magical wards -

_'Ow!'_

Wincing, he began to shake the painful tingling off of his fingers. A static discharge? Where did that come from? Wards, even damaged, were not supposed to react like that to the object's owner... well, unless his very own bag of holding had just decided that he owned it no more. With a perplexed frown, he poked it and received yet another zap in response, even more angry than the previous one.

_'Wonderful.'_

His shoulders fell. His old, faithful bag of holding had apparently deemed him unworthy... Maybe it was an omen of some sort. Maybe the next magically enhanced thing that would reject him soon would be the moonblade, finally putting an end to his wretched life.

"Er... ya may not wanna touch the front for now."

He jerked his head up, startled.

How did that pink-haired child get there – and when? He had not seen, nor even heard her approaching, and he could swear that only a moment ago, she was sitting on the opposite side of the fire. Now she was crouching near him, though, glancing alternately at his bag and at him with a strange, knowing look painted all over her face.

At him. And at his... bag...

His eyes widened. He immediately recalled her declaration from the day before, the one he had brushed off so quickly: _'I'm good with openin' things!' _Now, when he was thinking about it, his bag was not in the exactly same place where he had left it yesterday evening.

But no, surely she would not dare to -

"Worry not, mister wizard," she said with a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "This sparky-tingly, finger-fryin' thing's gonna wear off in a day or two. 'Tis nothin' permanent, only a stupid side effect, but for now, ya shouldn't be pokin' too much at this main wardin' spell on the front. T'was messed up, like, really, really badly. It needed ta be treated with a shocker an' now needs some time ta get better."

By the gods...

She _would_ – and she _did_.

"What - have you done - to my bag?," he asked slowly, his voice growing colder with every syllable.

"Well, I've noticed that ya've tried ta fix it, but without a success, so...," the pink-haired girl hesitated for a heartbeat. "So I thought it might be all nice an' helpful ta fix it for ya. We need ta help each other an' all, an' I've got a knack for such things. I know how ta deal with various traps an' magical wards, even those tricky ones," she shrugged, smiling. "'Tis me job, kinda. Ye're welcome."

He only stared at her.

He stared at her in silence so heavy that it should be able to squash a person under its sheer weight.

But she did not look squashed at all, no – in fact, she apparently decided that since he was silent, she was free to speak again.

"Now, 'bout this shocker... Ya prob'ly dunno what it is, right? Well, 'tis a handy trick for things like messed up magical wards or old magical traps," she continued, her smile turning promptly into a grin. "Takes some time ta work, usually two days, but trust me, 'tis totally worth it. It kinda forces the wardin' spell ta deactivate on itself. Then ya'll be able ta easily dispel it, or repair it, or modify it, whatever ya want. Clever, huh?"

Unbelievable. Utterly unbelievable. She was still sounding genuinely... friendly and cheerful, and perfectly at ease. She even had the audacity to look proud of herself, as though she had not _stolen someone's property_, for the sake of -

He closed his eyes for a short moment. He needed a heartbeat to push his indignation under the surface of his mind – and then yet another one to dilute it into indifference. The state of _nievana_. The state of _whatever_. The default state of every enchanter's mind.

There.

"You have stolen my bag," he said flatly, opening his eyes and looking at her. "You have _stolen my bag_ and made it a subject of dubious, quasi-magical practices."

"What? No, no, no, hold on. I only _borrowed_ it," she raised a finger into the air, sounding surprisingly solemn – probably as solemn as she could possibly get. "I borrowed yer bag an' repaired it, nothin' more. Stealin' is when ye're takin' somethin' an' not givin' it back, right? Now, this," she pointed at the bag. "T'was merely a... ya know, a good deed."

"No. Stealing is when you are taking the other person's belongings without explicit permission, and it is never a good deed," he corrected her, feeling somewhat obliged to straighten her twisted logic. "Other people's things are their private property. Other people's things are not to be touched. It is as simple as that. So, regardless of your intentions, please... _do not_ touch my bag _ever again..._ under _any_ circumstances," he finished in a quiet, but firm voice, emphasizing the last part and drawing the line thus.

She blinked, probably processing his words.

"Sure," she finally gave a small shrug. "No problem."

He sighed. He doubted that she had taken his words to heart, but... she was not deliberately ill-willed, it would seem. She was just... He paused in his thoughts for a moment. She was just a young human – an insolent, childlike creature, most likely raised in some backwater village or in some miserable town with high crime rate, judging by her accent and her roguish streak.

There was probably no point in getting upset with her.

_'Nievana,'_ he reminded himself.

"Ya may wanna check the pockets on the other side, thou'," the girl bit her lip. "They should be good now. They can be opened an' closed with the same key gestures as before. Thou'... ya should prob'ly check if 'tis possible ta get somethin' outta them, just in case."

He looked at her sharply.

"Have you not checked it by yourself already?," his eyes narrowed.

"Nah, 'course I haven't," she waved her hand. "I couldn't."

_'So she has some decency left in her, after all...'_

"Yer bag doesn't respond ta common, an' I suck at elvish."

_'...never mind.'_

His heavy gaze fell back onto his bag. He was probably going to regret this, but... he turned it around and moved his hand over the row of pockets on the other side. To his surprise, instead of messy clumps of magical threads, he found decently shaped warding sigils there – an invisible, polygonal pattern over each pocket, intertwined with lesser runes. Had she redone them? Not perfect, no. Not terrible, either.

_'Adequate,'_ he concluded.

Was she educated in arcane magic to some degree? A self-taught, perhaps?

He experimentally touched the middle sigil. The spell seemed to be responsive enough under his shaky fingers, so after some more prodding he carefully performed the opening gesture, touching the invisible runes in the right order. He half-expected yet another static discharge. Instead of that, a silver clasp popped open.

He hesitantly reached into the pocket.

"_Faenyarad_," he whispered.

The extradimensional space obediently spat a small, bluish leaf into his hand.

"Yay! T'works!," the girl grinned triumphantly, but then she paused all of sudden. "I mean... it _works_, right? Ya wanted ta get that, um... that pretty leaf outta it, not somethin' else?," she eyed the leaf curiously. "Why's it blue?"

"...Yes, it works," he settled on answering only her first question and placed the leaf back inside the pocket, when it immediately got sucked into the void. "But I am not going to thank you," he added with a sigh. "You need to understand that what you have done was wrong and... and... oh, why do I even bother..."

That last part he muttered only to himself because she was already on her feet and outside the cave, updating her companion on the matter of the bag – as if the elven girl had not heard everything.

"See? Told ya he won't be mad!"

He frowned. Had the elf known, then?

The silvery-haired girl caught his questioning gaze and sent him a profoundly apologetic look in response – that characteristic, embarrassed look of an older sibling who needs to apologize for her younger sister's antics. Then she opened her mouth, as if preparing to say something. Then she closed it. Then she winced, averted her eyes and ran her hand through her hair, blushing slightly, clearly searching for words, but ultimately unable to explain herself.

She had not to. She had known – maybe even helped... Was that why he had awoken wrapped in that blanket today? Was that why she had offered him that rose tea? To silently apologize, to sweeten his mood before an inevitable confrontation? _'Probably,'_ he sighed inwardly, a bitter quirk to the side of his mouth.

What an odd morning. And, since odd mornings were usually preceding the equally odd days – he already dreaded to think what might await him after the one like _this_.

* * *

"Tombs?," Imoen perked up her ears and quickened her pace, approaching the warrior. "There are tombs in this valley?"

"There are," Khalid answered, picking at fastenings of his spare armour, clearly unhappy about being bereft of his faithful splint mail. "N-not many, though. Nothing ancient... or s-special. There are m-many burial places in this p-part of the mountains."

She sceptically raised an eyebrow and cast a cursory glance towards the nearest rocks. Nothing special, eh? No ordinary people were buried in such remote areas, days of travel away from the nearest settlement – she had read and heard enough stories to know such things. Not to mention that old tombs usually meant old, bony undead prowling the nearby grounds...

"Ah... Are there gonna be any, ya know... skeletons?," she asked tentatively. Skeletons in the Mulahey's den were neither exceptionally ancient, nor powerful, but they had been hard enough to deal with for her. She could handle an undead or two – a zombie, or something equally common – but taking down a bunch of moving bones with a dagger, or even a few daggers, was not easy.

No skin, no soft bits. Nothing to stab at.

"Well, t-there may be, but worry not. We shouldn't m-meet any as long as we won't get too close to the t-tombs," Khalid pointed out, noticing her uneasiness. "Besides, at least a few of these tombs have already b-been opened and robbed. W-whatever dwelled in them is probably not d-dangerous anymore," he added with a small smile.

"That's... good ta know," she muttered, frowning.

_'What, already robbed? Dang it. What's the point in choosin' the path throu' the valley full of old tombs if ya can't even -'_

Vaire suddenly appeared at her side and discreetly tapped her elbow, giving her_ a look_. Imoen fluttered her lashes with an innocent expression, pretending out of habit that she has no idea what that was about – but of course, such tricks were completely wasted on someone who knew her since she was a child. Soon they both slowed down, falling to the back of their little column.

"No tomb exploring," the elf mouthed_._

"Why? In case ya haven't heard the uncle, some of these tombs are already empty," Imoen mouthed back. In her head, the plan was already forming. "I've never seen an old tomb before. I'd like ta know what ta expect in case we _needed_ ta enter one some day. Now, I dunno 'bout ya, but I can hardly resist such an occasion ta educate myself," she touched her chest with a slightly dramatic gesture. "I think 'tis me inner oghmite -"

"Educate," Vaire sent her a withering look. "The last time you were _educating_ yourself, I ended up apologizing to the town's major and convincing him that you have wandered near the town's treasury by a sheer accident."

"Hey, that _was_ an accident!"

"We are in the middle of an important mission, Immy," the elf pressed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "We need to get to the town _alive_. No need to take such risks. Not now, anyway," she paused. "Besides, don't you remember all these stories about old tombs and their dangers? Winthrop has known, like, hundreds of them. Cursed scrolls. Cursed weapons. Cursed corpses. A non-zero chance of accidentally summoning a nameless horror from another plane."

Imoen pursed her lips.

Sometimes having a big sister was no fun.

"And one more thing, Immy," Vaire sent her a serious look. "About that little stunt of yours..."

* * *

Xan was scanning the ochre-coloured landscape that was stretching around them. Those striped masses of rocks were a curiosity to him – tracing the patterns of lines on their surfaces, he concluded that they were almost identical wherever he turned her eyes. The mountains in this area must had been one rock formation once, before some unnamed rivers had cut their channels through it, slowly deepening and widening the gaps between eroded parts. The last trace of surface water must had disappeared from here ages ago, but the memory of rivers was still imprinted on the rocks. The whole scenery reminded him a bit about the rocky hills east of Evereska, stretching along the borders of the Great Desert.

His expression suddenly changed to uneasy one. Now that he was thinking about it, those eastern hills had been full of hidden Netherese crypts. He could only hope that the tombs in this area did not contain any liches.

"Heya!," he practically jumped when a cheerful voice cut through his personal shroud of silence.

_'Please, no.'_

That pink-haired nuisance of a child. Startling him. _Again_.

"How's it goin'?"

He spared her only a quick glance and bristled inwardly. After their morning exchange of words, shouldn't she be... _not_ talking to him? He should probably ignore her and stay silent, anyway. Human small talk topics were often beyond his comprehension and he did not want to accidentally encourage her.

"I just thought that I, um...," she continued, apparently unfazed by his lack of reaction. "I dunno much 'bout Greycloaks, so maybe ya could tell me a thing or two? Ya've prob'ly seen a great chunk of the world by now. Ya must have, like, thousands of stories ta tell. An', well... After sittin' in that cave for so long, ya must be dyin' to finally talk to someone."

Was he... _what_? What a peculiar statement. The term 'dying' he could understand well enough, especially after his most recent near-death experience – but 'dying to talk to someone' was a completely alien concept to him.

"Immy," the elven girl called from behind then, her tone good-natured, but reproachful at the same time.

"Aw, c'mon. I'm not pesterin' him," the human girl protested with an innocent expression. "Just ask him. I'm not persterin' ya, mister wizard, am I?"

He sighed again. He _really_ missed his magic now. He was always reluctant to use his spells on people he travelled with, but by this point, he was really tempted to cast a basic suggestion enchantment. It would be so easy. It was barely a proper spell – an enchanters' cantrip, really – but powerful enough to convince a young human that she has better things to do than harassing him.

Not that she would even notice that she was under a spell. Not with her attention span.

"Yes, you _are _pestering me," he replied sullenly.

"Immy," the elven girl spoke again.

"Er... What?"

"You know what."

The pink-haired human sighed in defeat.

"Ah, _that_. Right...," she paused and looked at him again. "I... I apologize for takin' yer bag an' tryin' ta repair it without yer permission," she declared awkwardly, scratching the back of her neck. "I can't really say I'm sorry -"

"Imoen!," the elven girl hissed quietly, but not quiet enough for him not to hear. "You had _one job..._!"

"Hey, I can apologize, but I'm not gonna lie ta him! An' besides, lemme finish," she frowned before resuming her little speech. "Can't really say I'm sorry for what I've done, but I'm sorry for how ya've felt 'bout it," she finished meekly, her eyes darkening with something that resembled a genuine regret. "Like, for real. I only wanted ta help, but I... I should've asked. I screwed up, kinda, an' I understand that now ya may be -"

"Let us just forget about it," he interrupted her quickly, not only because she sounded sincere enough, but mainly because at the moment, he was ready to say about anything to be finally left in peace.

Her eyes an her whole face instantly lit up.

"Great!," she beamed at him. "An' hey, I meant what I said earlier. I absolutely love listenin' ta stories, so... Well, whenever ya happen ta be in a mood for storytellin', remember ta lemme know. Please?"

_'Not in this lifetime.'_

Watching her trotting away, he could not help but think that there was something unbelievably innocent about her otherwise annoying attitude. Something that would probably be coloured pink, were it visible.

Or maybe it was only her hair?

_'Ah, well. Humans.'_

* * *

"Watch out!"

Khalid spun around just in time to see another skeleton raising from the dusty ground. He hit it with his sword, shattering its skull to pieces. He needed to strike a few more times, though, before it stopped moving completely – or rather, before every important part of it stopped moving completely. One bony arm was still crawling towards him.

Jaheira crushed the skeletal hand under her boot and smashed the rest with her quarterstaff for a good measure.

"Please tell me... that was... the last one," Vaire panted, looking around, her sword still raised. Her voice was hoarse from inhaling dust raising both from the dry ground and the dry bones, although she preferred not to think about that second part for now.

"I t-think so," Khalid nodded, coughing. "There is probably a tomb s-somewhere near."

The elf sheathed her weapon and took a moment to rinse her mouth first before actually drinking some water. Fighting skeletons was terribly tiring, especially in such conditions. It was already well past midday, but it was still so hot that they felt as though the very air around them was trying to suck the moisture out of their lungs. The ground was cracked and completely dry – no trace of water after the last rain, as if the parched earth had swallowed it to the last drop, leaving nothing for the air and sun.

And the bone dust. The bone dust was _the worst_.

"This place must be cursed," she heard the wizard mumbling. He had tried to stay away from the battle this time, but he had been attacked by a stray skeleton nonetheless and ended up with a flesh wound.

"You may be right," Jaheira nodded, briefly examining the slash on his arm before healing it. "Whatever is buried here, is too restless to my taste. We need to hurry up if we want to leave this part of the valley before the evening -"

"Wait," Vaire looked around, alarmed. "Where is Imoen?"

The pink-haired girl was instructed by the druid to keep her distance from the skeletons, mainly because with her weapons of choice, she could not do any significant damage to them. She was nowhere to be seen now, though, and – of course – she had disappeared so quietly that no one had noticed anything. The only person who had seen her walking away was Khalid who was claiming that she had circled the nearby rock and probably went somewhere behind it.

"Imoen!," Vaire called louder, approaching the spot pointed by the warrior and suddenly having a very, _very_ bad feeling about what she was going to find.

No trace of the rogue, as she expected.

"Hopefully, she only went to explore," Jaheira heaved an impatient sigh. "Vaire, you may start searching where you are now, but no more loud calls, if you please. It is not safe to raise your voice in such a place. I am going to check the other side of the rock. I think I saw her there at some point during the fight. Khalid, stay with Xan and let us know if she comes back," she nodded to the warrior.

Vaire's search was not long. After she climbed up a small scree slope, she had noticed a strange pile of rocks scattered near the rocky wall. They were cracked and in some places, they looked as if a long time ago, they had been touched by a magical fire. Their edges were regular, almost as if -

"Oh, hells, no," she muttered, approaching them and stopping abruptly.

Barely three paces away from when she stood, partially hidden behind a rubble, there was an entrance to the tomb.

* * *

Imoen raised her head and curiously looked around, using her glowing pendant as a miniature lantern. There was something exciting in exploring underground places such as this one – an aura of mystery, a subtle shadow of danger, with an uncertain promise of a prize looming somewhere beyond the darkness... And she was born to crave that excitement.

What might she stumble across here?

_'A chuffy cat? A fluffy bat? A scruffy rat...?'_

She smiled, remembering that silly rhyme Puffguts had taught her years ago.

As a child, she had been often sneaking out to wander around the citadel, eluding guards and playing an adventurer. Sometimes she had been going down to the cellars, clutching a potsherd with a stump of a candle stuck to it, searching for secret passages to those mysterious Candlekeep catacombs she had heard tales about. And yes, she had been stumbling across cats, bats and rats, but now...

She moved quietly through the dark corridor. Oh, how she wished Puffguts could see her now! She was fighting thugs, killing monsters, exploring mines and ancient tombs. Truth to be told, this particular tomb had already been opened and robbed by someone else, so it was probably nothing more than a tourist attraction now, but it was still ancient and dark, and even a _tiny_ bit scary, so there, it counted.

Something rustled above her head, making her pause.

_'A fluffy bat...?'_

A few bats, actually, hanging from the ceiling and apparently interested only in continuing their sleep. She immediately lowered her glowing pendant, not wanting the light to disturb them.

The corridor went downwards, but even though it was perfectly straight, she could not see the end yet. The ground beneath her feet was bare and clean, save for an occasional bat dropping. No signs of traps, suspiciously looking tiles or anything like that – but she was keeping her eyes open just in case.

The walls on her either side were lined with large stone slabs, stretching ahead into the darkness like two rows of oversized teeth. They looked kind of creepy... but on the other hand, things in such old tombs were probably supposed to look creepy.

When she finally reached the burial chamber, she paused. The huge rock that once ago had been closing the entrance was shattered to pieces. They were scattered all around, cracked and scorched, as though the rock had been destroyed by some kind of a fire spell – just like near the outer entrance.

_'Yep, someone's already been here.'_

She stepped into the chamber, deciding to quickly look around – and immediately wrinkled her nose when the stale air smelling of rotten wood and other rotten things filled her nostrils. She could only imagine how bad it was the moment after the tomb had been opened.

_'Ew.'_

Why such things were _never_ mentioned in tales of epic adventures?

She moved forward, securing the pendant around her wrist. The chamber was not large. The walls here were lined with stone slabs similar to those in the corridor, but most of them were covered with colourful patches of strange, spongy moss... or was that some kind of a fungus? The thing looked utterly gross, so she made a mental note not to touch it.

Near the back of the chamber were two massive, hollowed out logs. The upper part of the nearest one was laying on the floor, cracked and damaged. Imoen curiously peeked inside. There was nothing interesting in it, though – only a skull and other bones mingled with rotten wood and ragged scraps of cloth. Everything looked like a mess and a few bones were even scattered around the floor... Well, whoever had robbed that grave, was not even trying to be subtle about their work.

"Aw," she muttered, looking into the skull's empty sockets. "How rude. Had it been me, you wouldn't end up like this."

The skull was silent, grinning widely. With a newfound spark of humour, she grinned back at it and patted the cracked cranium before approaching the second log-coffin...

A sharp whistle reached her ears.

_'Found me so soon?'_

She whistled two times towards the entrance, letting her companions know that she is all right and safe. Well, she should probably go now. Sneaking away alone was fun, but she should not keep the others wondering -

Something rough and ropey circled her wrist and closed around it in an iron grip.

_'Huh?'_

She looked down at her hand and screamed.

* * *

Vaire ran through the corridor, the orb of magical light swaying over her head and moving barely fast enough to keep up with her. It was one of those rare moments in her life when she forgot about her fear of dark, underground places – for now, it was Imoen's scream that was making her blood run cold, wiping out any trace of hesitation from her mind and urging her to leap head first into the suffocating darkness.

"Imoen!," she called. "Imoen, are you all right?"

_'Are you alive?'_

A small flock of bats whizzed past her head, chirping in a flurry of unease at her intrusion. A smooth wing brushed against her temple, another one smacked against her cheek, but she only swatted at it and ducked her head, focused on the faint light of her sister's pendant. It was still there, hovering in the distance like a misplaced will-o'-the-wisp.

"Imoen!"

There was a burial chamber at the end of the corridor. She could already smell the foul scent of death and decaying things. Taking a deep breath, she reached for her sword and prepared for yet another fight, sincerely hoping that whatever was lurking in the tomb was no more dangerous than a ghoul.

_'I should have brought someone with me...'_

"Vaire? I'm... I'm good!," the rogue's voice sounded slightly relieved. "I'm just, er... -"

The elf jumped over the pieces of shattered rock, sending the magical light to the ceiling of the chamber.

Near the corner, she could see something that looked like an oversized cradle, but what was obviously a very old, very massive coffin made of a log. Imoen was standing nearby, her hand lost in the grip of dark, wiry hand. Vaire caught a glimpse of blackened skin, seemingly half-mummified, hugging the bones and what was left of muscles like a wrinkled parchment.

"What _is_ that?," Vaire uttered, the fear coiling in the pit of her stomach.

"This is not what it looks like!," the rogue announced, a note of panic ringing in her voice. "I wasn't tryin' ta stole anythin', I swear! I was just goin' ta leave when that... _thing_... caught me hand an' began ta talk. He's... er, _was_ one of the guys who robbed this grave once, methinks. He wants somethin' from me."

Vaire approached the coffin, having her sword at the ready. There was an unnaturally thin, dessicated humanoid trapped between the partially open lid and the edge of the coffin's bottom part – the creature's upper half was hanging motionlessly outside, as if it had been crushed in half at its hips.

The undead slowly turned its head towards her. It had probably been a human once, but now its face was ghastly thin and deformed, with sunken parts and remains of dark hair plastered to the scalp. Two solid black eyes were boring into hers, gleaming in cold magical light like pieces of polished obsidian. There was something familiar in them – that unique to some undead, twisted form of consciousness, a spark of a soul, for some reason still clinging to decaying body.

Somehow, Vaire was recognizing this spark, as if she had seen it before... although she could not remember when or where.

She frowned.

_'Why am I suddenly reminded of Mulahey?'_

"M... Murder," the thing wheezed quietly, looking again at Imoen. It made no move to get out of the coffin – in fact, it looked unable to move. It was just staring at the rogue, clutching her hand and muttering breathlessly, every word distorted, but recognizable. "My... lord... a... boon... murder... for... murder..."

"Enough of this," the elven girl hissed, raising her weapon and preparing to cut the creature's arm off. "Immy, back off and be ready to run. I will be right behind you."

"Wait! Whatchu doin'?," Imoen protested, moving closer to the coffin – _closer_, of all things! – and frantically waving her free hand in front of the elf's sword. "Don't! It doesn't wanna hurt me, see? It only wanna tell me somethin'. Just listen."

"I did. Which part of the word 'murder' have you not heard?," Vaire snapped. "Imoen, step back or gods help me, I will make you -!"

"But 'tis may be somethin' important -!"

"Alatos...," the undead made a low, guttural sound. "Name... murderer... important... Alatosss..."

Both the elf and the human girl went silent and looked down at the immobilized creature. It was still staring at Imoen with those unnervingly alert, black eyes.

"He's mentioned this Alatos earlier. 'Tis prob'ly his comrade," the pink-haired rogue explained, pointing at the undead. "The one who backstabbed him. Like, er... literally. I think that he left him here, trappin' him in that coffin."

"My... lord..."

"Sheesh, stop callin' me that," the girl winced. "Do I look like a guy ta ya or what?"

Vaire lowered her sword and gritted her teeth. As much as she hated undead, it was clear that this one here did not want to harm them... at least not now, while it was busy with alternately muttering the name of its murderer and pleading for a boon, clutching Imoen's hand.

_'A revenant, probably,' _she thought. That complicated things even more. Revenants were hard to deal with.

"What do you want from us?," she asked aloud. "We do not know your murderer, or his whereabouts. We cannot aid you in your revenge. Let go of my sister and let us leave in peace."

The creature grunted.

"No... peace... for... Alatosss..."

_'Ah, definitely a revenant. As stubborn and single-minded as the books claimed.'_

"Listen here, if we ever meet this Alatos, we'll say hello ta him for ya," Imoen added. "Would that be enough?"

The revenant's face twisted in a horrible grimace.

"Enough... with... dagger...," it wheezed hatefully, baring his teeth. Vaire raised her sword again in case it was preparing to attack, but the creature paid her no attention, focused entirely on Imoen. "Take... from... my... back... into... hisss..."

The rogue glanced at her sister.

"Could ya move this coffin lid a bit further?"

"What? Are you serious? He just asked you to _murder_ someone!," Vaire raised her voice, her eyes wide in disbelief.

"Well, I don't need ta make any promises ta him, right?," Imoen rolled her eyes. "C'mon, maybe if I take this goddamn dagger, he'll finally let go of me hand. I'm wearin' gloves, but... ew!"

Vaire glanced nervously at the coffin and let out a sigh. "I cannot believe I am doing this," she whispered under her breath and with an effort, moved the lid just enough to take a look at the rest of the revenant's body.

Its partially crushed torso was covered with remains of rotten leathers and twisted in a position that was painful to look at, and there was a dagger's handle sticking from between its shoulder blades. Imoen frowned.

"'Tis must be awful," she commented. "Ta end up undead because of yer treacherous buddy."

"Murder... for... murder... my... lord... revenge...," the creature's wheezing became more agitated.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Imoen reached with her free hand and grasped the dagger's handle to pull it out. "Honestly, I had no idea undead can be so..."

What happened next was completely unexpected. As soon as the dagger left its body, the revenant simply disintegrated, crumbling to dust – so quickly that a moment later, the only trace of his existence were rotten leather scraps and a pile of dark cinders.

"...talkative," the rogue finished with a stunned expression and blinked. "Wow, that was fast. I s'pose I should've said somethin', like, 'rot in peace, buddy,' but... well, seems like 'tis too late now."

Vaire coughed and turned around.

Now, when the last possibility of danger was gone, her fear of underground spaces was slowly catching up with her – she could already feel her breath quickening and her heart hammering in her chest, its echo pounding in her ears and muffling the other sounds. She discreetly uncorked the bottle of calming draught.

_'No need to risk slipping into a full-blown panic attack right now.'_

"'Tis some fancy dagger," Imoen was busy with examining the dark, almost black blade, tracing its length with one gloved finger. "D'ya think it may be enchanted or somethin'? There seems ta be some magic in it."

Vaire mechanically took the weapon from her hand.

"We will ask someone to check it for magical enhancements later," she sighed, barely looking at it, and briefly closed her eyes. The reality was coming back to her. The pounding in her ears diminished. The calming draught was kicking in. "Let's get out of -"

"Are you both out of your mind?!," she gasped, hearing the druid's voice behind her back and having a mini heart attack. "What possessed you to enter such a place on your own?!"

Imoen winced.

"So busted," she muttered under her breath.

They both turned around. Jaheira was standing near the chamber's entrance. She did not looked annoyed, though – for the first time since their meeting, she looked positively _furious_. Not good. Not good at all.

Somewhere behind her, Vaire could see the warrior, walking over the scattered remains of the rock and curiously looking around. The wizard was also there – his gaze might seem neutral and uninterested, but when he looked at her, she was almost sure that his eyebrow twitched up.

She suddenly became very conscious of the fact that she was standing near the half-open coffin, with her hands covered with dust, and she was holding an unfamiliar, equally dusty dagger.

_'...Oh.'_

Somewhat awkwardly, she cleared her throat.

"Jaheira... This is not what it looks like."

* * *

* _Suor lor nehel_ \- a blessing to you / bless you

_* Faenyarad_ \- healing leaf


End file.
